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SOLO BY 

-the— ■ 

I He^CANTIIE 

I - 6 S- 

k HEW YORK. . 


BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU, 

...... 

AUTHOR OF “UNCLE SILAS,” “GUY DEVERELL,” “ALL IN THE DARK,” 

&c., &c., &c. 


o 3 
<» » «* 




NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1 86 7 . 





\ 



I 



( f> 

\ / 




^ By J. S. LE FANU. 


UNCLE SILAS : A Tale of Bartram-Haugh. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. ^ ' 
GUY DEVERELL. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

ALL IN THE DARK. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

THE TENANTS OF MALORY. A Novel. 8vo, Paper. 


From the Lojtdon Times. 


No writer more fully fulfills the odd idiomatic expression 
of “carrying the reader along with him.” The reader is 
“carried along” wherever Mr. Le Fanu pleases — by the 
strangest and most out-of-the-way routes, by the most 
simple and flowery paths, by the most doleful, difficult, 
and mysterious tunnelings, swiftly, certainly, and willingly, 
to the end. So swiftly and so eagerly, indeed, that some- 


times when he has finished it he indulges himself, after a 
breathing halt, with a slower examination of his favorite 
chapters, and begins reading the novel a second time, 
musing over it, smiling at it, wondering he did not foresee 
this and comprehend that, conscious of meanings missed 
and prophetic hints overlooked in his great hurr>', and find- 
ing the second perusal even more pleasant than the first. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Sent by Mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the Price. 

» < 

^ U. S. Soldier's lH^ t 

Oct 28 ,l^ 




THE TEHAHTS OF MALORY, 


CHAPTER 1. 

CONCERNING TWO LADIES WHO SAT IN THE 
MALORY PEW. 

There were tenants at last in Malory ; and 
the curiosity of the honest residents of Cardyl- 
lian, the small and antique town close by, was 
at once piqued and mortified by the unaccount- 
able reserve of these people. 

For four years, except from one twisted chim- 
ney in the far corner of the old house, no smoke 
had risen from its flues. Tufts of grass had 
grown up between the paving-stones of the si- 
lent stable-yard, grass had crept over the dark 
avenue, which, making a curve near the gate, is 
soon lost among the sombre trees that throw a 
perpetual shadow upon it ; the groves of nettles 
had spread and thickened among their trunks ; 
and in the signs of neglect and decay, the mo- 
nastic old place grew more than ever triste. 

The pretty little Welsh town of Cardyllian'^ 
stands near the shingle of a broad estuary, be- 
yond which tower the noble Cambrian mountains, 
high and dim, tier above tier ; undulating hills, 
broken by misty glens, and clothed with woods, 
rise from the opposite shore, and are backed, 
range behind range, by the dim outlines of Al- 
pine peaks and slopes, and flanked by purple 
and gold-tinted headlands, rising dome -like 
from the sea. 

Between the town and the gray shingle 
stretches a strip of bright greensward, the Green 
of Cardyllian, along which rows of pleasant 
houses, with little gardens in front, look over 
the sea to the mountains. 

It is a town quaint, old, and quiet. Many 
of the houses bear date anterior to the great civ- 
il wars of England, and on the oak beams of 
some are carved years of grace during which 
Shakspeare was still living among his friends, 
in Stratford-on-Avon. 

At the end of long Castle Street rise the bat- 
tlements and roofless towers of that grand old 
feudal fortress which helped to hold the con- 
quest of Wales for the English crown in the days 
of tabards, lances, and the long bow. Its other 
chief street strikes off at right angles, and up 
hill from this, taking its name from the ancient 
church, which, with its church-yard, stands di- 
vided from it by a low wall of red sandstone, 
surmounted by one of those tall and fanciful 


iron rails, the knack of designing which seems 
to be a lost art in these countries. 

There are other smaller streets and by-lanes, 
some dark with a monastic stillness, others thinly 
built, with little gardens and old plum and pear 
treespeepingover grass-grown walls, and here and 
there you light upon a fragment of that ancient 
town wall from which, in the great troubles 
which have helped to build up the glory of En- 
gland, plumed cavaliers once parleyed with steel- 
capped Puritans. Thus the tints and shadows 
of a great history rest faintly even upon this out- 
of-the-way and serene little town. 

The permanent residents of Cardyllian for 
half the year are idle, and for mere occupation 
are led to inquire into and report one another’s 
sins, vanities, and mishaps. Necessity thus edu- 
cates them in that mutual interest in one another’s 
affairs, and that taste for narrative, which pusil- 
lanimous people call prying and tattle. That 
the people now residing in Malory, scarcely a 
mile away, should have so totally defeated them, 
was'painful and even irritating. 

It was next to impossible to take a walk near 
Cardyllian without seeing Malory; and thus 
their failure perpetually stared them in the face. 

You can best see Malory from the high grounds 
which, westward of the town, overlook the es- 
tuary. About a mile away you descry a dark 
and rather wide-spread mass of wood, lying in a 
gentle hollow, which, I think, deepens its som- 
bre tint. It approaches closely to the long rip- 
ple of the sea ; and through the foliage are visi- 
ble some old chimneys and glimpses of gray ga- 
bles. The refectory of the friary that once 
stood there, built of gray and reddish stones, 
half hid in ivy, now does duty as a barn. It is 
so embowered in trees, that you can scarcely, 
here and there, gain a peep from without at its 
tinted walls ; and the whole place is overhung by 
a sadness and seclusion that well accord with its 
cloistered traditions. That is Malory. 

It was Sunday now. Over the graves and 
tombstones of those who will hear its sweet mu- 
sic no more, the bell had summoned the towns- 
folk and visitors to the old church of Cardyl- 
lian. 

The town boasts, indeed, a beautiful old 
church. Gothic, with side aisles, and an antique 
stained window, from which gloried saints and 
martyrs look down, in robes as rich and brilliant 


6 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


as we see now-a-days only upon the kings and 
queens of our court cards. It has also some 
fine old monuments of the Verney family. The 
light is solemn and subdued, There is a very 
sweet-toned organ, which they say is as old as 
the reign of Charles I., but I do not know how 
truly. In the porch are hung in chains two sac- 
rilegious round-shot, which entered the church 
when Cromwell’s general opened his fire, in 
those days of sorrow when the liberties of En- 
gland were in the throes of birth. Beside the 
brilliant stained window, engraved upon a brass 
plate is a record of the same ‘‘ solemn times,” 
relating how certain careful men, to whom we 
are obliged, had taken down, enclosed in boxes, 
and buried, in hope of a typical resurrection, 
the ancient window which had for so long beau- 
tified “ this church,” and thus saved it from the 
hands of “ violent and fanatical men.” 

When “ the season” is still flourishing at Car- 
dyllian, the church is sometimes very full. On 
the Sunday I speak of it was so. One pew, in- 
deed, was quite relieved from the general press- 
ure. It was the large paneled enclosure which 
stands near the communion rails, at the right as 
you look up the aisle toward the glowing win- 
dow. Its flooring is raised a full foot higher 
than the surrounding level. This is the seat of 
the Verney family. 

But one person performed his devotions in it, 
upon the day of which I speak. This was a tall, 
elegantly slight young man, with the indescriba- 
ble air of careless fashion ; and I am afraid he 
was much more peeped at and watched than he 
ought to have been by good Christians during di- 
vine service. 

Sometimes people saw but the edge of his 
black whisker, and the waves of his dark hair, 
and his lavender-gloved hand resting on the edge 
of the pew. At other times — when, for in- 
stance, during the Litany, he leaned over with 
his arms resting on the edge of t*he pew — he was 
very satisfactorily revealed, and elicited a con- 
siderable variety of criticism. Most people said 
he was very handsome, and so, I think, he was 
— a dark young man, with very large, soft eyes 
and very brilliant even teeth. Some people 
said he was spoiled by an insolent and selfish 
expression of countenance. Some ladies again 
said that his figure was perfect, while others al- 
leged that there was a slight curve — not a stoop, 
but a bend at the shoulder, which they could not 
quite sanction. 

/" The interest and even anxiety with which 
this young gentleman was observed and after- 
ward discussed were due to the fact that he 
was Mr. Cleve Verney, the nephew, not of the 
present Viscount Verney, but of the man who 
must very soon be so, and heir-presumptive to 
the title — a position in the town of Cardyllian 
hardly inferior to that of Prince of Wales. 

But the title of Verney, or rather the right 
claimant to that title, was then, and had been 
for many years, in an extremely odd position. 
In more senses than one a cloud rested upon 
him. Por strong reasons, and in danger, he 


had vanished more than twenty years ago, and 
lived, ever since, in a remote part of the world, 
and in a jealpus and eccentric mystery. • 

While this young gentleman was causing so 
many reprehensible distractions in the minds of 
other Christians, he was himself, though not a 
creature observed it, undergoing a rather wilder 
aberration of a similar sort himself. 

In a small seat at the other side, which 
seems built for privacy, with a high paneling 
at the sides and back, sat a young lady, whose 
beauty riveted and engrossed his attention in a 
way that seemed to the young gentleman, of 
many London seasons, almost unaccountable. 

There was an old lady with her — a ladylike 
old woman, he thought her — slight of figure, 
and rubrically punctual in her uprisings and 
downsittings. The seat holds four with com- 
fort, but no more. The oak casing round it is 
high. The light visits it through the glorious 
old eastern window, mellowed and solemnized 
— and in this chidr'' oscuro^ the young lady’s 
beauty had a transparent and saddened charac- 
ter which he thought quite peculiar. Alto- 
gether he felt it acting upon him with the in- 
sidious power of a spell. 

The old lady, for the halo of interest of which 
the girl was the centre included her — was 
dressed, he at first thought, in black — but now 
he was nearly sure it was a purple silk. 

Though she wore a grave countenance, suita- 
ble to the scene and occasion, it was by no 
means sombre — a cheerful and engaging coun- 
tenance on the contrary. 

The young lady’s dress was one of those 
rich Welsh linseys, which exhibit a drapery of 
thick-ribbed, dark gray silk, in great measure 
concealed by a short but ample cloak or coat of 
black velvet — altogether a costume the gravity 
of which struck him as demure and piquant. 

Leaning over the side of his pew, Mr. Cleve 
Verney prayed with a remarkable persistence 
in the direction of this seat. After the Litany 
he thought her a great deal more beautiful than 
he had before it, and by the time the Commun- 
ion Sqyvice closed, he was sure he had never 
seen any one at all so lovely. He could not 
have fancied, in flesh and blood, so wonderful 
an embodiment of Guido’s portrait of Beatrice 
Cenci. The exquisite brow, and large hazel 
eye, so clear and soft, so bold and shy. The 
face voluptuous, yet pure ; funeste but inno- 
cent. The rich chestnut hair, the pearly white- 
ness, and scarlet lips, and the strange, wild, 
melancholy look — and a shadow of fate. Three 
quarters, or full face, or momentary profile — in 
shade now — in light — the same wonderful like- 
ness still. The phantom of Beatrice was be- 
fore him. 

I can’t say whether the young lady or the old 
observed the irregular worship directed toward 
their pew. Cleve did not think they did. He 
had no particular wish that they should. In 
fact, his interest was growing so strangely ab- 
sorbing that something of that jealousy of ob- 
servation which indicates a deeper sentiment 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


7 


than mere admiration had supervened, and Mr. 
Cleve conducted his reconnoitring with slyness 
and caution. 

That small pew over the way, he was nearly 
certain, belonged to Malory. Now Malory is a 
dower house of the Verneys. His own grand- 
mother, the Venerable Dowager Lady Verney, 
as much to her annoyance the Morning Post 
respectfully called her, was at that time the in- 
cumbent. But though she held it with the in- 
flexible gripe ‘of an old lady whose rights were 
not to be trifled with, she would not reside, 
and the place was, as I have said, utterly neg- 
lected, and the old house very much out of 
repair. 

Why, then, should the Malory pew be thus 
tenanted ? These ladies, he had no doubt, sat 
there of right — for if the seat had been opened 
to the congregation at large, in the then state 
of pressure, it would have been filled. Could 
they possibly be of kindred to the Verneys, and 
sit where they did by virtue .of an order from 
the Dowager? 

So Cleve Verney began to count up cousins 
wdiom he had never seen, and left oft* no wiser. . 

Close by this dark Malory pew is a small 
side door of the church. There is another like 
it, a little lower down, in the opposite wall, not 
far from the Verney pew, and through these 
emerge thin files of worshipers, while the main 
column shuftles and pushes through the porch. 
So, when the Rector had pronounced his final 
blesssing, Cleve Verney having improved the 
little silence that follows to get his hat and 
cane into his hand, glided from his seat before 
the mass of the congregation were astir, and 
emerging on the little gravel walk, stepped 
lightly down to the stone stile, from whence 
you command a view of every exit from the 
church-yard. 

He stood with one foot upon it, like a man 
awaiting a friend, and looking listlessly toward 
the church. And as he loitered, a friend did 
turn up’ whom he very little expected to see. A 
young man, though hardly so young as Cleve — 
good-looking, decidedly, with light golden mus- 
tache, and a face so kind, frank, and merry, it 
made one happy to look at it. 

“ Ah ! Sedley ! I had not an idea. What 
brings you here ?” said Cleve, smiling, and shak- 
ing his hand moderately, but keeping his large 
eyes steadily on the distant point at which he 
expected to see the unknown ladies emerge. 

“ Down here just for a day or two,” answer- 
ed Tom Sedley. “I was above you in the 
gallery. Did you see that beautiful creature 
in the Malory seat, right before you ? By Jove, 
she’s a stunning girl. There Was an old woman 
with her. I think I never saw so beautiful a 
being.” 

“Well, I did see a pretty girl at the other side 
of the church, I think; isn’t that she?” said 
Cleve, as he saw the two ladies — the younger 
with one of those short black veils which nearly 
obliterate the face of the wearer behind the in- 
tricacies of a thick lace pattefn. 


“By Jove! so it is,” said Sedley; “come 
along — let us see where they go.” 

They were walking almost solitarily, followed 
only by an old servant who carried their books, 
toward the entrance at the farther side of the 
church-yard, a small door opening upon a flight 
of steps by which you descend into one of the 
deserted back streets of Cardy Ilian. 

Cleve and Sedley pursued as little conspicu- 
ously as possible. The quaint street into which 
the stone stairs led them follows the moulder- 
ing shelter of the old town wall. 

Looking along the perspective of this street, 
if such the single row of small old houses con- 
fronting the dark ivied wall may be termed, the 
two young gentlemen saw the figures in pursuit 
of which they had entered it, proceeding in the 
direction of Malory. 

“ We mustn’t get too near ; let us wait a lit- 
tle, and let them go on,” suggested Sedley in a 
whisper, as if the ladies could have overheard 
them. 

Cleve laughed. He was probably the more 
eager of the two ; but some men have no turn 
for confidences, and Cleve Verney was not in 
the habit of opening either his plans or his feel- 
ings to any one. 


CHAPTER II. 

ALL THAT THE DRAPER’S WIFE COULD TELL. 

This street in a few hundred steps emerging 
from the little tow'n changes its character into 
that of a narrow rural road, overhung by noble 
timber, and descending with a gentle curve to- 
ward the melancholy w'oods of Malory. 

“ How beautifully she walks, too ! By Jove, 
she’s the loveliest being I ever beheld. She's 
the most perfectly beautiful girl in England. 
How I wish some d — d fellow would insult her, 
that I might smash him, and have an excuse 
for attending her home.” 

So spoke enthusiastic Tom Sedley, as they 
paused to watch the retreat of the ladies, lean- 
ing over the dwarf stone wall, and half hidden 
by the furrowed stem of a gigantic ash tree. 

From this point, about a quarter of a mile dis- 
tant from Malory, they saw them enter the wide 
iron gate and disappear in the dark avenue that 
leads up to that sombre place. 

“ There! I said it was Malory,’,’ exclaimed 
Sedley, laying his hand briskly on Cleve ’s arm. 

“Well, I hope you’re pleased ; and tell me, 
now, what stay do you make at Cardyllian, Tom ? 
Can you come over to Ware — not to-morrow, for 
I’m not quite sure that I shall be there, but on 
Tuesday, for a day or two ?” 

No — Tom Sedley couldn’t. He must leave 
to-morrow, or, at latest, on Tuesday morning; 
and, for to-day, he had promised to go to after- 
noon service with the Etherages, and then home 
to tea with them. He was to meet the party on 
the Green. 

So after a little talk, they turned together to- 


8 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


ward the town ; and they parted near the Verney 
Arms, where Clove’s dog-cart awaited him. Hav- 
ing given his order in the hall, he walked into 
the coffee-room, in which, seated demurely, and 
quite alone, he found stout Mrs. Jones, the dra- 
per’s wife — suave, sedate, wearing a subdued 
Sabbath smile upon her broad and somewhat 
sly countenance. 

Her smile expanded as Cleve drew near. She 
made a great and gracious courtesy, and extend- 
ed her short fat hand, which Cleve Verney took 
and shook — for the tradition of homelier, if not 
kindlier times, still lingered in Cardyllian, and 
there were friendly personal relations between 
the great family and the dozen and a half of 
shopkeepers who constituted its commercial 
strength. 

So Cleve Verney joked and talked with her, 
leaning on the back of a chair, with one knee on 
the seat of it. He was pleased to have lighted 
upon such a gossip as good Mrs. Jones, the 
draper, who was waiting for the return of her 
husband, who was saying a word to Mr. Watkyn 
Hughes, in the bar, about a loan of his black 
horse for a funeral next morning. 

“So it seems Lady Verney has got a tenant 
in Malory ?” he said at last. 

“Yes, indeed^ sir,” she replied, in her most 
confidential manner : “and I hope — I do indeed 
— it may turn out such a thing as she would 
like.” 

Mrs. Jones usually spoke in low and signifi- 
cant tones, and with a mystery and caution wor- 
thy of deeper things than she often talked about. 

“Why, is there any thing odd?” asked the 
young gentleman curiously. 

“ Well, it is wot, now, altogether what I would 
ivish for Lady Verney. I haven’t seen any of 
the Malory famil}", excepting in church to-day ; 
not one, indeed, sir ; they are very strange ; they 
never come into the towui — not once since ever 
they came to Malory ! but dear me ! you know, 
sir, that might 6e, and yet every thing as we 
could wush, mightn’t it ; yes, sure ; still, you 
know, people will be talking ; it’s a pity we don’t 
mind our own business more, and let others be, 
isn’t it, sir ?” 

“Great pity; but— but what’s the matter?” 
urged Cleve Verney. 

“Well, Master Cleve, you know Cardyllian, 
and how we do talk here ; I don’t say more than 
other places, but we c/o, and I do not like repeatirt 
every thing I hear. There’s more mischief than 
good, I think, comes of repeatin’ stories. 

“Oh! come, pray what’s the good of a story 
except to repeat it ? I ought to know, perhaps 
I should tell Lady Verney about it,” said Cleve, 
who w^as really curious, for nothing could be 
more quiet than the get-up and demeanor of the 
ladies. 

‘ • They haven’t been here, you know, very 
murmured !Mrs. Jones, earnestly. 

“ No, I don't know. I know nothing about it ; 
how long ?” 

“Well, about five weeks — a little more ; and 
w’e never saw the gentleman once ; he’s never 


been down to the town since he came ; never, 
indeed, sir, not once.” 

“ He Shows his sense ; doesn’t he ?” 

“ Ah, you were always pleasant. Master Cleve, 
but you don’t think so ; no, you don’t indeed; 
his conduct is really most singular, he’s never been 
outside the walls of Malory all that time, in the 
daylight; very odd; he nas hired Christmass 
Owen’s boat, and he goes out in it every night, 
unless twice, the wdnd was too high, and Owen 
didn’t choose to venture his boat. He’s a tall 
man, Christmass Owen says, and holds himself 
straight, like an officer, for people willhQ making 
enquiries, you know ; and he has gray hair ; not 
quite white, you know.” 

“ How should I know ?” 

“ Ah, ha, you were always yi/Tzwy ; yes, indeed, 
but it is gray, gone quite gray, Christmass Owen 
says.” 

“ Well, and what about the ladies?” inquired 
the young gentleman. “ They're not gone gray, 
all? though I shouldn’t w'onder much in Mal- 
ory.” 

ladies? Well. There’s you know ; 
there’s Miss Sheckleton, that’s the elderly lady, 
and all the Malory accounts in the town is opened 
in her name. Anne Sheckleton, very reg’lar 
she is. I have nothing to say concerning her. 
They don’t spend a great deod, you understand, 
but their money is sure." 

“Yes, of course; but, you said, didn’t you, 
that there was something not quite right about 
them?” 

“Oh, dear, no, sir; I did not say quite that; 
nothing wrong, no, sure, but very odd, sir, and 
most unpleasant, and that is all.” 

“And that’s a good deal; isn’t it?” urged 
Cleve. 

“ Well, it is something ; it is indeed a great 
deal," Mrs. Jones emphasized oraculantly. 

“And what is it, what do you know of them, 
or the people here, what do they say ?" 

“Well, they say, putting this and that to- 
gether, and some hints from the seiwant that 
comes down to order things up from the towm, 
for servants, you know, will be talking, that the 
family is mad." 

Mad!" echoed Cleve. 

“That’s what they say.” 

“The whole family are mad! and yet con- 
tinue to manage their affairs as they do ! By 
Jove, it is a comfort to find that people can get 
on without heads, on emergency.” 

“They don’t say, no, dear me! that a// that’s 
in the house are mad ; only the old man and the 
young lady.” 

“And what is she mad upon ?” 

“Well, they don’t say. I don’t know — mel- 
ancholy, I do suppose.” 

“ And what is the old gentleman’s name ?” 

“We don’t know, the servants don’t know, 
they say ; they were hired by Miss Sheckleton, 
in Chester, and never saw the old gentleman, nor 
the young lady, till after they were two or three 
days in Malory ; and one night comes a carriage, 
with a mad-house gentleman, they do say, a doc- 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. . 


9 


tor, in charge of the old gentleman and the young 
lady, poor thing ! and so they were handed over 
by him to Miss Sheckleton.” 

“And what sort of lunacies do they commit ? 
They’re not pulling down tl;,-'1iouse among them, 
I hope ?” 

“ Very gentle — very. I’m told, quite, as you 
may say, managahle. It’s a very sad thing, sir, 
but what a world it is ! yes, indeed. Isn’t it ?” 

“ Ay, so it is. — I’ve heard -that, I think, be- 
fore.” 

“You may have heard it from me^ sir, and it’s 
long been my feeling and opinion, dear me ! The 
longer I live the more melancholy sights I see ! ” 

“ How long is Malory let for?” 

“ Can’t say, indeed, sir. That is, they may 
give it up every three months, but has the right 
to keep it two whole years, that is, if they Vike^ 
you understand. 

“ Well, it is rather odd. It was they who sat 
in the Malory seat to-day !” 

“ That was Miss Sheckleton, was tlie old lady ; 
and the young one, didn’t you think her very 
pretty, sir ?” 

“ Yes — she’s pretty,” he answered carelessly. 
“But I really could not see very well.” 

• “I was very near as she turned to leave — 
before she took down her vail — and I thought 
what a really beautiful creature she was!” 

“And what do they call her?” 

“Miss Margaret, sir.” 

“Margaret! a pretty name — rather. Oh, 
here’s Mr, Jones and Mr. Jones w^as greeted — 
and talked a little — somewhat more distantly 
and formally than his good wife had done — and 
Mr. and Mrs. Jones, with a dutiful farewell, set 
off upop their Sunday’s ramble. 


CHAPTER III. 

HOME TO WARE. 

“Mad!” thought Cleve. “What an awful 
pity if she is. She doesn’t look mad — melan- 
choly she may. She does not look a hit mad. 
By Jove, I don’t believe a word of it. It’s ut- 
terly out of the question that the quiet old lady 
there could bring a mad girl to church with her. 
And thus resolved, Cleve walked out of the cof- 
fee-room, and awaiting his conveyance, stood on 
the steps of the Verney Arms, from whence he 
saw Wynne Williams, the portly solicitor of 
Cardyllian, and of a wide circle of comfortable 
clients round it. Wynne Williams is omniscient. 
Nothing ever happens in Cardyllian that he does 
not know with precision. 

“ Wynne,” Cleve called up the quiet little 
street, and the attorney, looking over his fat 
shoulder, arrested his deliberate walk, and 
marched swiftly back, smiling. 

So there was another greeting; and some 
more questions ensued, and answers, and then 
said Cleve — 

“ So Malory’s let, I hear.” 

“Yes,” said the attorney, with a slight shrug. 


j “You don’t like the bargain, I see,” said 
Cleve. 

‘ ‘ It’s a mismanaged place, you know. Lady 
Verney won’t spend a shilling on it, and we 
must only take what w^e, can get. We haven’t 
had a tenant for five years till now.” 

“And who has taken it?” 

“The Rev. Isaac Dixie.” 

“The devil he has. Why, old Dixie’s not 
mad, is he ?” 

“ No, he’s no fool. More like J;he other thing 
— rather. Drove a hard bargain — but I wouldn’t 
take it myself at the money.” 

“Doesn’t he live there?” 

“No. There’s an old gentleman and two 
ladies ; one of them an old woman.” 

“And what’s the old gentleman’s name^ and 
the young lady’s ?” 

“Don’t know, indeed ; and what does it mat- 
ter ?” The attorney was curious, and liad taken 
some little trouble to find out. ‘ ‘ The Reverend 
Isaac Dixie’s the tenant, and Miss Sheckleton 
manages the family business ; and devil a letter 
ever comes by post here, except to Miss Sheckle- 
ton or the servants.” 

“ Old Mother Jones, the draper’s wife, over 
the way, says the girl and the old fellow are 
mad.” 

“ Don’t believe it. More likely he’s in a fix, 
and wants to keep out of sight and hearing just 
now, and Malory’s the very place to hide a fel- 
low in. It’s just possible^ you know, there may 
be a screw loose in the upper works ; but I don’t 
believe it, and don’t for the world hint it to the 
old lady. She’s half mad herself about mad 
people, and if she took that in her head, by Jove, 
she’d never forgive me, ” and the attorney laughed 
uneasily. 

“You do think they’re mad. By Jove, you 
do. I knoio you think they’re mad.” 

“ I don't think they’re mad. I don’t know 
any thing about them,” said the good-humored 
attorney", wdth Dundreary whiskers, leaning on 
the wooden pillar of the Verney Arms, and 
smiling provokingly in the young man’s face. 

“ Come now, Wynne, I’ll not tell the old lady, 
upon my honor. You may as well tell me all 
you know. And you do know ; of course you 
do ; you always know. And these people living 
not a mile away! You must know.” 

“ I see how it is. She’s a pretty girl, and you 
want to pick up all about her, by way of inquiring 
after the old gentleman.” 

Verney laughed, and said — 

“Perhaps you’re right, though, I assure you, 
I didn’t know it myself. But is the old fellow 
mad, or is there any madness among them ?” 

“ I do assure you, I know no more than you 
do,” laughed Mr. Wynne Williams. “He may 
be as sober as Solomon^ or as mad as a hatter, 
for any thing I know. It’s nothing to me. 
He’s only a visitor there, and the young lady, 
too, for that matter ; and our tenant is the Rev- 
erend Isaac Dixie.” 

“ Where is Dixie living now?” 

“The old shop.” 


10 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


“I know. I wonder he has not wriggled on 
and lip a bit. I always looked on Dixie as the 
bud of a dignitary ; he has had time to burst 
into a Bishop since I saw him. Dixie and I 
have had some queer scenes together,” and he 
laughed quietly over his recollections. “He 
and I spent three months once together in Malo- 
ry ; do you remember ? I dare say he does. He 
was tutor and I pupil. Charming time. We 
used to read in the gun-room. That was the 
year they had the bricklayers and painters at 
Ware. Do you reipember the day you came in 
exactly as I shied the ink bottle at his head ? I 
dare say the mark’s on the wall still. By J ove, 
I’d have killed him, I suppose, if I’d had the 
luck to hit him. You must come over and see 
me before I go. I’m quite alone ; but I can give 
you a mutton chop and some claret, and I want 
to show you the rifle I told you of. You’ll be 
delighted with it.” 

And so this young man, with large dark eyes, 
smiled and waved his farewell, and, with a groom 
behind him, drove at a rapid pace down the 
street, and away toward Ware. 

“He’ll do that seven miles in five-and-thirty 
minutes,” thought the attorney, looking after 
him drowsily ; and his speculation taking an- 
other turn, he thought mistily of his political 
possibilities, for he had been three years in the 
House, and was looked upon as a clever young 
man, and one who, having many advantages, 
might yet be — who could tell where, and have 
power to make the fortunes of many deserving 
attorneys. 

Cleve meanwhile was driving at a great pace 
toward Ware. I don’t suppose a town life — a 
life of vice, a life of any sort, has power to kill 
the divine spark of romance in a young man 
born with imagination. 

Malory had always had a strange and power- 
ful interest for him. A dower house now, it 
had once been the principal mansion of his 
family. Over it, to his eye, hung, like the som- 
bre and glowing phantasms of a cloudy - sunset, 
the story of the romance and the follies and 
the crimes of generations of the Verneys of 
Malory. The lordly old timber that rises about 
its chimneys and gables, seemed to him the mute 
and melancholy witnesses of by-gone tragedies 
and glories. 

There, too, in the steward’s house, a verita- 
ble relic of the ancient friary, lived dreamy old 
Rebecca Mervyn ; he wondered how he had for- 
gotten to ask whether she was still there. She 
had seemed to his boyish fancy one of those de- 
lightful German ambiguities — half human, half 
ghost ; her silent presents of tafiy, and faint 
wintry smile and wandering gaze, used to thrill 
him with “a pleasing terror.” He liked her, 
and yet he would have been afraid to sit alone 
in her latticed room with that silent lady, after 
twilight. Poor old Rebecca ! It was eight 
years since he had last seen her tall, sad, silent 
form — silent, except when she thought herself 
alone, and used to whisper and babble as she 
looked with a wild and careworn gaze over the 


sea, toward the mighty mountains that build it 
round, line over line, till swell and peak are lost 
in misty distance. He used to think of the 
Lady of Branksome Tower, and half believe 
that old Rebecca was whispering with the spirits 
of the woods and cataracts and lonely head- 
lands- over the water. 

“Is old Rebecca Mervyn there still?” he 
wondered on. “Unless she’s dead, she is — for 
my grandmother would never think of disturb- 
ing her, and she shall be my excuse for going. up 
to Malory. I ought to see her.” 

The door of her quaint tenement stood by the 
court-yard, its carved stone chimney-top rose by 
the roof of the dower house, with which, indeed, 
it was connected. ‘ ‘ It won’t be like crossing 
their windows or knocking at their hall door. 
I shan’t so much as enter the court-yard, and I 
really ought to see the poor old thing.” 

The duty would not have been so urgent had 
the face that appeared in church that day been 
less lovely. 

He had never troubled himself for eight years 
about the existence of old Rebecca. And now 
that the image, after that long interval, suddenly 
returned, he for the first time asked himself why 
old Rebecca Mervyn was ever there ? He had 
always accepted her presence as he did that of 
the trees, and urns, and old lead statues in the 
yew walk, as one of the properties of Malory. 
She was a sort of friend or client of his grand- 
mother’s — not an old servant plainly, not even a 
housekeeper. There was an unconscious re- 
finement and an air of ladyhood in this old 
woman. His grandmother used to call her Mrs. 
Mervyn, and treated her with a sort of distinc- 
tion and distance that had in it both sympathy 
and reserve. 

“I dare say Wynne Williams knows all about 
her, and I’ll go and see her, at all events.” So 
he thought as his swift trotter flew under the noble 
trees of Ware, along the picturesque road which 
commands the seaward view of that unrivaled 
estuary flanked by towering headlands, and old 
Pandillion, whose distant outline shows like a 
gigantic sphinx crouching lazily at the brink of 
the sea. Across the water now he sees the old 
town of Cardy Ilian, the church tower and the 
ruined Castle, and, farther down, sad and se- 
questered, the dark wood and something of the 
gray front of Malory blurred in distance, but 
now glowing with a sort of charm that was fast 
deepening into interest. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ON THE GREEN OF CAEDTLLIAN. 

Ware is a great house, with a palatial front 
of cut stone. The Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney 
seldom sees it. He stands next to the title, and 
that large residue of the estates which go with 
it. The title has got for the present into an odd 
difficulty, and can not assert itself; and those 
estates are, pending the abeyance, compulsorily 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


11 


at nurse where they have thriven, quite thrown 
off their ailments and incumbrances, and grown 
plethorically robust. 

Still the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney is not, as 
the lawyers say, in perception of one shilling of 
their revenues. He feels indeed that he has 
grown in importance — that people seem more 
pleased to see him, that he is listened to much 
better, that his jokes are taken and laughed at, 
and that a sceptical world seems to have come 
at last to give him credit for the intellect and 
virtues of which he is conscious. All this, how- 
ever, is but the shadow of the substance which 
seems so near and yet is intangible. 

No wonder he is a little peevish. His nephew 
and heir-presumptive — Cleve — runs down now 
and then for shooting or yachting ; but his uncle 
does not care to visit Ware, and live in a corner 
of the house. I think he liked the people of 
Cardyllian and of the region roundabout to 
suffer and resent with him. So they see his face 
but seldom. 

Cleve Verney sat, after dinner, at an open 
window of Ware, with one foot on the broad 
window-stone, smoking his cigar and gazing 
across the dark blue sheet of water, whose rip- 
ples glimmered by this time bright in the moon- 
light, toward the misty wood of Malory. 

Cleve Verney is a young man of accomplish- 
ment, and of talents, and of a desultory and tu- 
multuous ambition, which sometimes engrosses 
him wholly, and sometimes sickens and loses its 
appetite. He is conceited — affecting indiffer- 
ence, he loves admiration. The object for the 
time being seizes his whole soul. The excite- 
ment of even a momentary pursuit absorbs him. 
He is reserved, capricious, and impetuous — 
knows nat what self-mortification is, and has a 
pretty taste for dissimulation. 

He is, I think, extremely handsome. I have 
heard ladies pronounce him fascinating. Of 
course, in measuring his fascinations, his prox- 
imity to a title and great estates was not for- 
gotten ; and he is amiable as a man can be who 
possesses all the qualities I have described, and 
is selfish besides.' 

Now Cleve Verney was haunted, or rather 
possessed for the present, by the beautiful phan- 
tom — sane or mad, saint or sinner — who had 
for so long, in that solemn quietude and monot- 
ony so favorable for the reception of fanciful 
impressions, stood or sat, nun -like, book in 
hand, before him that day. So far from resist- 
ing, he encouraged this little delirium. It help- 
ed him through his solitary evening. 

When his cigar was out, he still looked out 
toward Malory. He was cultivating his little 
romance. He liked the mystery of it. “Mar- 
garet — Margaret,’' he repeated softly. He fan- 
cied that he saw a light for a moment in the 
window of Malory, like a star. He could not 
be sure ; it might be the light of a boat. Still 
it was an omen — the emblem of life — an an- 
swer of hope. 

How very capricious all this was. Here was 
a young man, before whom yearly the new- 


blown beauties of each London season passed 
in review — who fancied he had but to choose 
among them all — who had never experienced a 
serious passion, hardly even a passing sentiment 
— now strangely moved and interested by a per- 
son whom he had never spoken to — only seen — 
who had seemed unaffectedly unconscious of his 
presence, who possibly had not even seen him ; 
of whose kindred and history he knew nothing, 
and between whom and himself there might 
stand some impassable gulf. 

Cleve was in the mood to write verses, but 
that relief, like others, won’t always answer the 
invocation of the sufferer. The muse is as coy 
as death. So instead, he wrote a line to the 
Kev. Isaac Dixie, of Clay Rectory, in which he 
said — 

“ My Dear Dixie: — You remember when I 
used to call you ^Mr. Dixie,’ and ^ Sir.' I con- 
jure you by the memory of those happy days of 
innocence and Greek grammar to take pity on 
my loneliness, and come here to Ware, where 
you will find me pining in solitude. Come just 
for a day. I know your heart is in your parish, 
and I shan’t ask you to stay longer. The Wave, 
my cutter, is here ; you used to like a sail (he 
knew that the Rev. Isaac Dixie suffered unutter- 
ably at sea, and loathed all nautical enjoyments), 
or you can stay in the house, and tumble over 
the books in the library. I will make you as 
comfortable as I can ; only do come and oblige, 
“ Your old pupil, 

‘ ‘ Cleve Verney.” 

“P.S. — I shall be leaving this immediately^ 
so pray answer in person, by return. You’ll get 
this at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, at 
Clay. If you take the 11.40 train to Llwynon 
— you see I have my ‘ Bradshaw’ by me — you 
will be there at four, and a fly will run you 
across to Cardyllian in little more than an hour, 
and there you will find me, expecting, at the 
Chancery; you know Wynne Williams’s old 
house in Castle Street. I assure you, I really 
want to see you, 'particularly., and 3^011 must not 
fail me. I shan’t detain you one moment long- 
er than your parish business will allow. , Heav- 
ens, what a yarn have I post-scribbled !” 

He walked down to the pretty little village 
of Ware, which consists of about a dozen and a 
half of quaint little houses, and a small vener- 
able church, situated by the road that winds 
through a wooded glen, and round the base of 
the hill by the shore of the moonlighted waters. 

It was a romantic ramble. It was pleasant- 
er, because it commanded, across the dark blue 
expanse, with its flashing eddies, a misty view, 
now hardly distinguishable, of Malory, and, 
pleasanter still, because his errand was connect- 
ed with those tenants of old lady Verney’s, of 
whom he was so anxious to learn aifiy thing. 

When Tom Sedle}', with the light whiskers, 
merry face, and kind blue eyes, had parted com- 
pany that afternoon, he w’alked down to the 
green of Cardyllian. In the middle of Septem- 


12 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


ber there is a sort of second season there ; you 
may then see a pretty gathering of muslins of 
all patterns, and silks of every hue, floating and 
rustling over the green, with due admixture of 
White waistcoats and black, 

Blue waistcoats and gray, 

with all proper varieties of bonnet and hat, pork- 
pie, wide-awake, Jerrj’-, and Jim Crow'. There 
arc nautical gentlemen, and gentlemen in Knick- 
erbockers ; fat commercial gents in large white 
waistcoats and starched buff cravats ; touring 
curates in spectacles and chokers,” with that 
smile proper to the juvenile cleric, curiously 
meek and pert ; all sorts of persons, in short, 
making brief holiday, and dropping in and out of 
Cardyliian, some just for a day and off again in 
a fuss, and others dawdling away a week, or per- 
haps a month or two, serenely. 

Its heyday of fashion has long been past and 
over; but though the “fast” people have gone 
elsewhere, it is still creditably frequented. 
Tom Sedley was fond of the old town. I don’t 
think he would have reviewed the year at its 
close, with a comfortable conscience, if he had 
not visited Cardyliian, “ slow” as it certainly 
was, some time in its course. 

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, the green 
looked bright, and the shingle glittered lazily 
beyond it, with the estuary rippling here and 
there into gleams of gold, away to the bases of 
the glorious Welsh mountains, wdiich rise up 
from the deepest purple to the thinnest gray, 
and with many a dim rift and crag, and w'ood- 
ed glen, and slope, varying their gigantic con- 
tour. 

Tom Sedley, among others, showed his rever- 
ence for the Sabbath, by mounting a well brush- 
ed chimney-pot. No one, it is well established, 
can pray into a Jerry. The musical bell from 
the gray church tower liummed sweetly over the 
quaint old town, and the woods and hollows 
round about ; and on a sudden, quite near him, 
Tom Sedley saw the friends of w'hom he had 
been in search ! 

The Etherage girls, as the ancient members 
of the family still called them, were two in num- 
ber. Old Vane Etherage of Hazelden, a very 
pretty place, about twenty minutes’ w'alk from 
the green of Cardyliian, has b^en twice married. 
The result is, that the two girls belong to very 
different periods. Miss Charity is forty-five by 
the parish register, and Miss Agnes, of the blue 
eyes and golden hair, is just nineteen and four 
months. 

Both smiling after their different fashions, 
advanced upon Tom, who strode up to them 
with. his chimney-pot in one hand, and waving 
and kissing the other, and smiling prodigiously. 

Miss Cliarity of the long waist, and long thin 
brown face, and somewhat goggle eyes, was first 
up, and asked him very volubly at least eleven 
kind questions, before she had done shaking his 
hand, all which he answered them, laughing, 
and at last, said he — 

“Little Agnes, are you going to cut me? 
How 'well you look ! Certainly there’s no place 


on earth like Cardyliian for pretty complexions^ 
is there ?” 

He turned for confirmation to the curiously 
brown thin countenance of Miss Charity, which 
smiled and nodded acquiescence. “ You’re go- 
ing to-morrow, you say ; that’s a great pity ; 
every thing looking so beautiful.” 

Every thing,’’' ccquiesced Tom Sedley, 'with 
an arch glance at ignes, who blushed and said 
merrily — 

“You’re just the same old fool you always 
were, Tom ; and we don’t mind one word you 
say.” 

“Aggie, my dear!” said her sister, who car- 
ried down the practice of reproof from the nurse- 
ry ; and it was well, I suppose, that Miss Aggie 
had that arbitress of proprieties always beside 
her. 

“I suppose you have no end of news to tell 
me. Is any one dying, or any one christened? 
I’ll hear it all by-and-by. And who are your 
neighbors at Malory ?” 

“ Oh, quite charming!” exclaimed Miss Ag- 
nes eagerly. “ The most mysterious people that 
ever came to a haunted house. You know Mal- 
ory has a ghost.” 

“ Nonsense, child. Don’t mind her, Mr. Sed- 
ley,” said Miss Charity. “I wonder how you 
can talk so foolishly.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing new. Malory’s been 
haunted as long as I can remember,” said Tom. 

“ Well, I did not think Mr. Sedley could have 
talked like that!” exclaimed Miss Charity. 

“ Oh, by Jove, I know it. Every one knows 
it that ever lived here. Malory’s full of ghosts. 
None but very queer people could think of living 
there ; and, Miss Agnes, you were going to 
say — ” 

“Yes, they are awfully mysterious. There’s 
an old man who stalks about at night, like the 
ghost in “ Hamlet, ” and never speaks, and there’s 
a beautiful young lady, and a gray old woman 
who calls herself Anne Sheckleton. They shut 
themselves up so closely — you can’t imagine. 
Some people think the old man is a manaic, or 
a terrible culprit.” 

“Highly probable,” said Tom ; “ and the old 
woman a witch, and the young lady a vampire.” 

“Well, hardly that,” laughed Miss Agnes, 
“for they came to church to-day.” 

“ How you can both talk such folly,” inter- 
posed Miss Charity. 

‘ ‘ But you know they would not let Mr. 
Pritchard up to the house,” pleaded Miss Ag- 
nes. Mr. Pritchard, the curate, you know” — 
this was to Tom Sedley — “ he’s a funny little 
man — he preached to-da}" — very good and zeal- 
ous and all that— and he wanted to push his 
way up to the house, and the cross old man 
they have put to keep the gate took him by the 
collar, and was going to beat him. Old Cap- 
tain Sharpnell says he did beat him with a 
child’s cricket-bat ; but he hates Mr. Pritchard, 
so I’m not sure ; but, at all events, he was turn- 
ed out in disgrace, and blushes and looks digni- 
fied ever since whenever Malory is mentioned. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


13 


N*ow, every one here knows what a good little 
man poor.Mr. Pritchard is, so it must have been 
sheer hatred of religion that led to his being 
turned out in that way.” 

“But the ladies were in church, my dear 
Aggie; we saw them, Mr. Sedley, to-day ; they 
were in the Malory pew.” 

“Oh, indeed?” said Ton;' Sedley, artfully; 
“and you saw them pretty -distinctly, I dare 
say.” 

‘ ‘ The young lady is quite beautiful, we 
thought. I’m so sorry you were not in our 
seat ; though, indeed, people ought not to be 
staring about them in church ; but you would 
have admired her immensely.” 

“ Oh, I saw them. They were the people 
nearly opposite to the Verney’s seat, in the 
small pew? Yes, they were — that is, the young 
lady, I mean, was perfectly lovely,” said little 
Tom, who could not with any comfort practice 
a reserve. 

“ See, the people are beginning to hurry off 
to church ; it must be time to go,” said Chari- 
tj- 

So the little party walked up by the court- 
house into Castle Street, and so turned into 
quaint old Church Street, walking demurely, 
and talking very quietly to the solemn note of 
the old bell. 


CHAPTER V. 

A VISIT TO HAZELDEN. 

They all looked toward the Malory seat on 
taking their places in their own ; but that re- 
treat was deserted now, and remained so, as 
Tom Sedley at very brief intervals ascertained, 
throughout the afternoon service; after which, 
with a secret sense of disappointment, honest 
Sedley escorted the Etherage “ girls” up the 
steep road that leads through the wooded glen 
of Hazelden to the hospitable house of old Vane 
Etherage. 

Every one in that part of the world knows 
that generous, pompous, and boisterous old gen- 
tleman. You could no more visit Cardyllian 
without seeing Vane Etherage, than you could 
visit Naples without seeing Vesuvius. He is 
a fine portly bust, but little more. In his 
waking hours he lives alternately in his Bath 
chair and in the great leathern easy-chair in 
his study. He manages to shuffle very slowly, 
leaning on his servant on one side and propped 
on his crutch at the other, across the hall of the 
Cardyllian Club, which boasts about six-and- 
thirty members, besides visitors, and into the 
billiard-room, where he takes possession of the 
chair by the fire, and enjoys the agreeable con- 
versation of Captain Shrapnell, hears all about 
the new arrivals, who they are, what screws are 
loose, and where, and generally all the gossip 
and scandal of the little commonwealth of Car- 
dyllian. 

Vane Etherage had served in the navy, and, 
I believe, reached the rank of captain. In Car- 


dyllian he was humorously styled “ the Admi- 
ral,” when people spoke of him, not to him ; 
for old Etherage was fiery and consequential, 
and a practical joke which commenced in a note 
from an imaginary secretary, announcing that 
“ The Badger’s Hunt” would meet at Hazelden 
House on a certain day, and inducing hospita- 
ble preparations for the entertainment of those 
nebulous sportsmen, was like to have had a san- 
guinary ending. It was well remembered that 
when young Sniggers of Sligh Farm apologized 
on that occasion, old Etherage had arranged 
with Captain Shrapnell, who was to have been 
his second, that the Admiral was to fight in his 
Bath chair — an evidence of resource and reso- 
lution which was not lost upon his numerous 
friends. 

“How do you do, Sedley ? Very glad to see 
you, Tom — very glad indeed, sir. You’ll come 
to-morrow and dine; you must, indeed — and 
next day. You know our Welsh mutton — you 
do — you know it well ; it's better h^re than in 
any other place in the world — in the whole 
world, sir; the Hazelden mutton, and, egad, 
you’ll come here — you shall, sir — and dine here 
with us to-morrow ; mind, you shall.” 

The Admiral wore a fez, from beneath which 
his gray hair bushed out rather wildly, and he 
was smoking through an enormous hubble-bub- 
ble pipe as Tom Sedley entered his study, ac- 
aompanied by the ladies. 

“ He says he’s to go away to-morrow,” said 
Miss Charity, with an upbraiding look at Sed- 
ley. 

“Pooh — nonsense — not he — not yon, Tom — 
not a bit, sir. We won’t let you. Gh’ls, we 
won’t allow him to go. Eh? — No — ^no — you 
dine here to-morrow, and next day.” 

“ You’re very kind, sir ; but I promised, if I 
am still in Cardyllian to-morrow, to run over to 
Ware, and dine with Verney.” 

“ What Verney?” 

“ Cleve Verney?” 

“D— him.” 

“Oh, papa I” exclaimed Miss Charity, grimly. 

“Boh ! — I hate him — I hate all the Verneys,” 
bawled old Vane Etherage, as if hating were a 
duty and a generosity. 

“ Oh — no, papa — you know you don’t — that 
would be extremely wicked f said Miss Charity, 
with that severe superiority with which slie 
governed the Admiral. 

“ Begad, you’re always telling me I’m wicked 
— and we know where the wicked go — that’s Cate- 
chism, I believe — so I’d like to know where’s 
the difference between that and d — ingafellow*?” 
exclaimed the portly bust, and blew offfliis wrath 
with a testy laugh. 

“I think we had better put off our bonnets 
and coats. The language is becoming rather 
strong — and the tobacco,” said Miss Charity, 
with dry dignity, to her*sister, leaving the study 
as she did so. 

“I thought it might be that Kiff'yn Verney 
— the uncle fellow — Honorable Kiffyn Verney 
— o?is-honorable, I call him — that old dog, sir, 


14 


. THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


he’s no better than a cheat — and I’d be glad of 
an opportunity to tell him so to his face, sir — 
you have no idea, sir, how he has behaved to 
me !” 

“ He has the character of being a very honor- 
able man, sir — I’m sorry you think so differ- 
ently,” said honest Tom Sedley, who always 
stood up for his friends and their kindred — 
‘‘and Cleve — I’ve known from my childhood, 
and I assure you, sir, a franker or more gener- 
ous fellow I don’t suppose there is on earth.” 

“ I know nothing about the jackanape, ex- 
cept that he’s nephew of his roguish old uncle,” 
said the florid old gentleman with the short high 
nose and double chin. “ He wants to take up 
Llanderis, and he shan't have it. He’s under 
covenant to renew the lease, and the devil of it 
is, that between me and Wynne Williams we 
have put the lease astray — and I can’t find it — 
nor he either — but it will turn up — I don’t care 
twopence about it — but no one shall humbug 
me — I won’t be gammoned, sir, by all the Ver- 
neys in England. Stuff— six \" 

Then the conversation took a happier turn. 
The weather was sometimes a little squally with 
the Admiral — but not often — genial and boister- 
ous — on the whole sunny and tolerably serene 
— and though he sometimes threatened high and 
swore at his servants, they knew it did not mean 
a great deal, and liked him. 

People who lived all the year round in Car- 
dyllian, which from November to May, every 
year, is a solitude, fall into those odd ways and 
little self-indulgences which gradually meta- 
morphose men of the world into humorists and 
grotesques. Given a sparse population, and 
difficult intercommunication, which in effect con- 
stitute solitude, and you have the conditions of 
barbarism. Thus it was that Vane Etherage 
had grown uncouth to a degree that excited the 
amazement of old contemporaries who happened 
from time to time to look in upon his invalided 
retirement at Cardyllian. 

The ladies and Tom Sedley, in the drawing- 
room, talked very merrily at tea, while old Vane 
Etherage, in his study, with the door between 
the rooms wide open, amused himself with a 
nautical volume and his terrestrial globe. 

“So,” said Miss Agnes, “you admired the 
Malory young lady — Margaret, our maid says, 
she is called — very much to-day ?” 

“I did, by Jove. Didn’t you?” said Tom, 
-well pleased to return to the subject. 

“Yes,” said Agnes, looking down at her 
spoon — “Yes, I admired her; that is, her fea- 
tures are very regular; she’s what I call ex- 
tremely handsome ; but there are prettier girls. ” 

“ Here, do you mean?” 

“ Yes— here.” 

“ And who are they ?” 

“ Well, I don’t say here now ; but I do think 
those Miss Dartmores, for instance, who were 
here last year, and used to wear those blue 
dresses, were decidedly prettier. The heroine 
of Malory, whom you have fallen in love with, 
seems to me to want animation.” 


“Why, she couldn’t show a great deal of 
animation over the Litany,” said Tom. 

“I did not see her then; I happened to be 
praying myself during the Litany,” said Misj 
Agnes, recollecting herself. 

“It’s more than I was,” said Tom. 

“ You ought not to talk that way, Mr. Sedley. 
It isn’t nice, I wonder you can,” said Miss 
Charity. 

“ I would not say it, of course, to strangers,’’ 
said Tom. “But then, I’m so intimate here — 
and it’s really true, that is, I mean, it was to- 
day.” 

“I wonder what you go to church for,” said 
Miss Charity. 

“ Well, of course, you know, it’s to pray ; but 
I look at the bonnets a little, also ; every fellow 
does. By Jove, if they’d only say truth, I’m 
certain the clergymen peep — I often saw them. 
There’s that little fellow, the Rev. Richard ^*ritch- 
ard, the curate, you know — I’d swear I’ve seen 
that fellow watching you, Agnes, through the 
chink in the reading-desk door, while the ser- 
mon was going on ; and I venture to say he did 
not hear a word of it.” 

“You ought to tell the rector, if youVeally 
saw that,” said Miss Charity, severely. 

“ Pray, do no such thing,” entreated Agnes ; 
“ a pleasant situation for me !” 

“ Certainly, if Mr. Pritchard behaves himself 
as you describe,” said Miss Charity ; “ but I’ve 
been for hours shut up in the same room with 
him — sometimes here, and sometimes at the 
school — about the children, and the widows’ 
fund, and the parish charities, and I never ob- 
served the slightest levity ; but you are joking, 
I’m sure.” 

“I’m not, upon my honor. I don’t say it’s 
the least harm. I don’t see how he can help it ; 
I know if I were up in the air — in a reading- 
desk, with a good chink in the door, where I 
thought no one could see me, and old Doctor 
Splayfoot preaching liis pet sermon over my 
head — wouldn't I peep ? — that’s all.” 

“ Well, I really think, if he makes a habit of 
it, I ought to speak to Doctor Splayfoot. l‘ 
think it’s my duty," said Miss Charity, sitting 
up very stiffly, as she did when she spoke of 
duty; and when once the notion of a special 
duty got into her head, her inflexibility, as Tom 
Sedley and her sister Agnes knew, was terrify- 
ing. 

“ For mercy’s sake, my dear Charry, do think 
of me! If you tell Doctor Splayfoot, he’ll be 
certain to tell it all to Wynne Williams and 
Doctor Price Apjohn, and every creature in Car- 
dyllian will know every thing about it, and a 
great deal more, before two hours ; and once 
for all, if that ridiculous story is set afloat^ 
into the church door I’ll never set my foot 
again.” 

Miss Agnes’s pretty face had flushed crimson, 
and her lip quivered with distress. 

“How can you be such a fool, Aggie! I’ll 
only say it was at our seat, and no one can pos- 
sibly tell which it was at— you or I; and I’ll 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


15 


certainly tell Doctor Splayfoot that Mr. Sedley 
saw it.” 

‘‘ And I’ll tell the Doctor,” said Sedley, who 
enjoyed the debate immensely, “that I neither 
saw nor said any such thing.” 

“I don’t think, Thomas Sedley, you’d do 
any thing so excessively wicked!” exclaimed 
Miss Charity, a little fiercely. 

“Try me,” said Tom, with an exulting little 
laugh. 

“ Every gentleman tells the truth,” thrust she. 

“Except where it makes mischief,” parried 
Tom, with doubtful morality and another mis- 
chievous laugh. 

“Well, I suppose I had better say nothing 
of Christianity. But what you do is your own 
affair! my duty I’ll perform. I shall think it 
over ; and I shan’t be ruffled by any folly in- 
tended to annoy me.” Miss Charity’s thin 
brown cheeks had flushed to a sort of madder 
crimson. Excepting these flashes of irritability, 
I can’t charge her with many human weak- 
nesess. “I’ll not say loho he looked at — I’ve 
promised that ; but unless I change my present 
op aion. Doctor Splayfoot shall hear the whole 
thing to-morrow. I think in a clergyman any 
such conduct in church is unpardonable. ’ The 
effect on other people is positively ruinous. 
Tom, for instance, would not have talked about 
such things in the light you do, if you had not 
been encouraged in it, by seeing a clergyman 
conducting himself so.” 

“Mind, you’ve promised poor little Agnes 
you’ll not bring her into the business, no matter 
what I do,” said Sedley. 

“ I have, certainly.” 

“ Well, I’ll stay in Cardyllian to-morrow, and 
I’ll see Doctor Splayfoot.” Sedley was button- 
ing his coat and pulling on his gloves, with a 
wicked smile on his good-humored face. “And 
I’ll tell him that you think the curate ogles you 
through a hole in the reading-desk. That you 
like Aim, and hds very much gone about you ; 
and that you wish the affair brought to a point ; 
and that you’re going to appeal to him — Doctor 
Splayfoot — to use his authority either to effect 
that^ or to stop the ogling. I will, upon my 
honor ! ” 

“And I shall speak to papa to prevent it,” 
said Miss Charity, who was fierce and literal. 

“And that will bring about a duel, and he’ll 
be shot in his Bath chair, and I shall be hanged” 
— old Van* Etherage, with his spectacles on, was 
plodding away serenely at the little table by the 
fire, over his Naval Chronicle — ‘ ‘ and Pritchard 
will be deprived of his curacy, and you’ll go mad, 
and Agnes will drowm herself like Ophelia, and 
a nice little tragedy you’ll have brought about. 
Good-night ; I’ll not disturb him” — he glanced 
toward the unconscious Admiral — “ I’ll see you 
both to-morrow, after I’ve spoken to the Rector.” 
He kissed his hand, and was gone. 


CHAPTER Vr. 

MALORY BY MOONLIGHT. 

When Tom Sedley stepped out from the glass 
door on the gravel walk, among the autumn 
flowers and the evergreens in the pleasant moon- 
light, it was just nine o’clock, for in that primi- 
tive town and vicinage people keep still wonder- 
fully early hours. 

It is a dark and lonely walk down the steep 
Hazelden road, by the side of the wooded glen, 
from whose depths breaks and rises the noise of 
the mill stream. The path leads you down the 
side of the glen, with dense forest above and be- 
low you ; the rocky steep ascending at the left 
hand, the wooded precipice descending into utter 
darkness at your right, and beyon^ that, black 
against the sky, the distant side of the wooded 
ravine. Cheery it was to emerge from the close 
overhanging trees, and the comparative darkness, 
upon the high road to Cardyllian, which follows 
the sweep of the estuary to the high street of the 
town, already quiet as at midnight. 

The moon shone so broad and bright, the 
landscape looked so strange, and the air was so 
A’osty and pleasant, that Tom Sedley could not 
resist the temptation to take a little walk which 
led him over the Green, and up the stdep path 
overhanging the sea, from which you command 
so fine a view of the hills and headlands of the 
opposite side, and among other features of the 
landscape, of Malory, lying softly in its dark and 
misty woodlands. 

Moonlight, distance, hour, solitude, aided the 
romance of my friend Tom Sedley, who stood in 
the still air and sighed toward that antique house. 

With arms folded, his walking-cane grasped 
in his right hand, and passed, sword fashion, un- 
der his left arm, I know not what martial and 
chivalric aspirations concerning death and com- 
bat rose in his good-natured heart, for in some 
temperaments the sentiment of love is mysteri- 
ously associated with the combative, and our 
homage to the gentler sex connects itself mag- 
nanimously with images of wholesale assault and 
battery upon the other. Perhaps if he could 
have sung, a stave or two might have relieved his 
mind ; or even had he been eloquent in the lan- 
guage of sentiment. But his vocabulary, un- 
happily, was limited, and remarkably prosaic, 
and not even having an appropriate stanza by 
rote, he was fain to betake himself to a cigar, 
smoking which he at his leisure walked down 
the hill toward Malory. 

Half way down, he seated himself upon the 
dwarf wall, at the roadside, and by the ivied stem 
of a huge old tree, smoked at his ease, and sighed 
now and then. 

“ I can’t understand it — it is like some con- 
founded witchcraft,” said he. “I carUt get her 
out of my head.” 

I dare say it was about the same time that his 
friend Cleve Verney was performing, though not 
with so sublime an enthusiasm, his romantic de- 
votions in the same direction, across the flickering 
water, from Ware. 


16 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


As he stood and gazed, he thought he saw a 
figure standing near the water’s edge on the 
shingle that curves in front of Malory, 

If a living figure, it was very still. It looked 
gray, nearly white, in the moonlight. Was 
there an upright shaft of stone there, or a post to 
moor the boats by ? He could not remember. 

He walked slowly down the road. “ By Jove ! 

I think it's moving,” he said aloud, pulling up 
all at once and lowering his cigar. “No it isn't 
moving, but it did move, I think ^ — yes, it has 
changed its ground a little — hasn’t it ? Or is 
it only my standpoint that’s changed ?” 

He was a good deal nearer now, and it did 
look much more like a human figure — tall and 
slight, with a thin gray cloak on — but he could 
not yet be quite certain. Was there not a resem- 
blance in the proportions — tall and slight? Tho 
uncertainty was growing intense; there was r, 
delightful confusion of conjecture. Tom Sedley 
dropped his cigar, and hastened forward with an 
instinctive stealthiness in his eagerness to arrive 
before this figure — if such it were — should be 
scared away by his approach. 

He was now under the shadow of the tall trees 
that overhang the outer wall of Malory, and cast 
their shadows some way down upon the sloping 
shore, near the edge of which a tall female figure 
was undoubtedly standing, with her feet almost 
touching the ripple of the water, and looking 
steadfastly in the direction of the dim headland 
of Pendillion, which at the far side guards the 
entrance of the estuary. 

In the wall of Malory, at some three hundred 
yards away from the gate, is a small door, a little 
sally-port that opens a nearly direct access from 
the house to the rude jetty where the boats are 
sometimes moored. This little door stood now 
wide open, and through it the figure had of course 
emerged. 

Tom Sedley now for the first time began to 
feel a little embarrassed. The general privacy 
of the place, the fact that the jetty, and in point 
of law the strand itsejf, here, belonged to Malo- 
ry, from which the private door, which still stood 
open, showed that the lady had emerged — all 
these considerations made him feel as if he were 
guilty of an impertinence, and very nearly of a 
trespass. 

The lady stood quite still, looking across the 
water. Tom Sedley was upon the road that skirts 
the wall of Malory, in the shadow of the great 
trees. It would not have done to walk straight 
across the shingle to the spot where the lady 
stood, neither could he place himself so as to in- 
tercept her return to the doorway, directly ; so, as 
a less obvious stratagem, he made a detour, and 
sauntering along the water’s edge like a man in- 
tent solely on the picturesque, with a beating 
heart he approached the female, who maintained 
her pose quite movelessly until he had approach- 
ed within a few steps. 

Then she turned suddenly, revealing an old 
and almost agonized face, that looked in the in- 
tense moonlight white and fixed as if cut in | 
stone. There is something ludicrous in the sort I 


of shock which Tom Sedley experienced. He 
stood staring at the old lady with an expression 
which, if she had apprehended it, would not have 
flattered her feminine self-esteem, if any of that 
good quality remained to her. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old woman, 
with a nervous eagerness, drawing near. “But, 
pray, can you see a sail in that direction, a yawl, 
sir, they call it, just there?" — she pointed — “I 
fancied about two miles beyond that vessel that 
lies at anchor there ? I can’t see it now, sir, can 
you ?" 

She had come so close that Sedley could see 
not only the deep furrows, but the finely etched 
wrinkles about the large eyes that gazed on him, 
and from him to the sea, with an imploring 
stare. 

“There’s no sail, ma’am, between us and 
Pendillion,” said Sedley, having first raised his 
hat deferentially, for did not this strange old lady 
with her gray mantle drawn over her head, never- 
theless, represent Malory, and was not Malory 
saddened and glorified by the presence of that 
beautiful being whom he had told himself a 
thousand times since morning service he never, 
never could forget ?” 

“Ha, ha! I thought I saw it, exactly, sir, in 
that direction ; pray look more carefully, sir, my 
old eyes tire, and fail me.” 

“ No, ma’am, positively nothing there. How 
long ago is it since you first saw it ?” 

“ Ten — twenty — minutes, it must be.” 

“A yawl will run a good way in that time, 
ma’am,” said Tom with a little shake of his 
head and a smile. “The yawl they had at 
Ware last year would make eight knots an hour 
in this breeze, light as it is. She might have 
been up to Bryll by this time, or down to 
Pendrewist, but there’s no sail, ma’am, either 
way.” 

“ Oh ! sir, are you very sure?” 

“ Quite sure, ma’am. No sail in sight, except 
that brig just making the head of Pendillion, 
and that can’t be the sail you saw, for she W'asn’t 
in sight twenty minutes since. There’s nothing 
more, ma’am, except boats at anchor.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said the lady, still looking 
across the water, and with a deep sigh. “No, 
I suppose there’s none. It sometimes happens 
to' me, fancy, I suppose, and long expectation, 
from my window, looking out. It’s a clear view, 
between the trees, across the bay to Pendillion ; 
my eyes tire, I think ; and so I fancy I see it. 
Knowing, that is, feeling so very sure, it will 
come again. Another disappointment for a 
foolish old woman. I sometimes think it’s all 
a dream.” She had turned and was now stum- 
bling over the large loose stones toward the^ 
door. “ Foolish dreams — foolish head — foolish 
old head ; yet, sir, it may be that which goes 
aw’ay may come back, all except life. I’ve been 
looking out that way,” and she turned and moved 
her hand toward the distant headlands. “ You 
see nothing?” 

I “ No sail, ma’am,” answered Tom. 

1 “No, no sail, ’’she repeated to the shingle 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


17 


under her feet, as she picked her steps again 
homeward. 

“ A little longer — another wait ; wait patient- 
ly. Oh I God, how slowly years and months go 
over ! ” 

“May I see you to the door, ma’am ?” asked 
Tom Sedley, prosaically. The old lady, think- 
ing, I dare say, of other things, made him no 
answer, a silence which he accepted as per- 
mission, and walked on beside her, not knowing 
what to say next, and terribly anxious to hit 
upon something, and try to found an acquaint- 
ance. The open door supplied him. 

“Charming place, this Cardyllian, ma’am. 
I believe no one ever was robbed in it. They 
leave their doors open half the night, just like 
that.” 

“Do they, indeed?” said she. I think she 
had forgotten her companion altogether in the 
interval. “I don’t remember. “It’s fifteen 
years and upward, since I was there. I live 
here, at Malory.” She nodded, and raised her 
eyes to his face as she spoke. 

Suddenly she stopped, and looked at him more 
earnestly in silence for some seconds, and then 
said she — 

“ Sir, will you forgive me ? Are you related 
to the Verneys ?” 

“No, I haven’t that honor,” said he, smiling. 
“I hiow Cleve Vemey very well, and a very 
good fellow he is ; but we’re not connected ; my 
name is Sedley — Thomas Sedley.” 

“Sedley!” she repeated once or twice, still 
looking at him, “I don’t recollect the name. 
No — no connection, I dare say, Cleve ; and how 
is Cleve ?” 

“Very well; he’s at Ware, now, for a few 
days.” 

“Ah! I dare say, and veiy well; a pretty 
boy — very pretty ; but not like — no, not the 
least.” 

“I’ve heard people say he’s very like what 
his father was,” said Tom. 

“Oh! yes, I think so; there is a likeness,” 
acquiesced she. 

“His father’s been dead a long time, you 
know ?” 

“ I know; yes. Cleve is at Oxford or Cam- 
bridge by this time ?” she continued. 

Tom Sedley shook his head and smiled a little. 

“ Cleve has done with all that ever so long. 
He’s in the House of Commons now, and likely 
to be a swell there, making speeches, and all 
that.” 

“I know — I know. I had forgot how long 
it is since ; he was a clever boy, wild, and talk- 
ative ; yes, yes, he’ll do for Parliament, I sup- 
pose, and be a great man, some day, there. 
There was no resemblance, though; and you, 
sir, are like him, he was so^ handsome — no one 
so handsome.” 

Tom Sedley smiled. He fancied he was only 
amused. But I am sure he was also pleased. 

“ And I don’t know. I can make out noth- 
ing. No one can. There’s a picture. I think 
they’d burn it, if they knew. It is drawn in 
B 


chalks by a French artist ; they color so beauti- 
fully. It hangs in my room. I pray before it, 
every morning, for him.” 

The old lady moaned, with her hands folded 
together, and still looking steadfastly in his face. 

“ They’d burn it, I think, if they knew there 
was a picture. I was always told they were a 
cruel family. Well, I don’t know, I forgive 
him ; I’ve forgiven him long ago. You are 
very like the picture, and even more like what I 
remember him. The picture was taken jus^ 
when he came of age. He was twenty-seven 
when I first saw him ; he "was brilliant, a beauti- 
ful creature, and when I looked in his face, I saw 
the sorrow that has never left me. You are 
wonderfully like, sir; but there’s a difference. 
You’re not so handsome.” Here was a blow to 
honest Tom Sedley, who again thought he was 
only amused, but was really chagrined. 

“There is goodness and kindness in your 
face ; his had little of that, nothing soft in it, 
but every thing brilliant and interesting ; and yet 
you are wonderfully like.” 

She pressed her hand on her thin bosom. 

“The wind grows cold. A pain shoots 
through me while I look at you, sir. I feel 
as if I were speaking to a spirit, God help me ! 
I have said more to you to-night, than I have 
spoken for ten years before; forgive me, sir, 
and thank you, very much.” 

She turned from him again, took one long 
look at the distant headland, and then, with a 
deep sigh, almost a sob, she hastened toward the 
door. He followed her. 

“Will you permit me to see you to the 
house ?” he pleaded with a benevolence, I fear, 
not quite disinterested. She was by this time 
at the door, from which with a gesture, declining 
his offer, she gently waved him back, and dis- 
appeared within it, without another word. He 
heard the key turn in the lock, and remained 
without, as wise with respect to his particular 
quest as he had arrived. 


CHAPTER YII. 

A VIEW FROM THE REFECTORY WINDOW. 

The old discolored wall of Malory, that runs 
along the shore overshadowed by grand old tim- 
ber, that looks to me darker than any other 
grove, is seven feet high, and as he could see 
neither through nor over it, and could not think 
of climbing it, after a few seconds spent in 
staring at the gray door, Tom Sedley turned 
about and walked down to the little hillock that 
stands by the roadside, next the strand, and 
from the top of this he gazed, during an entire 
cigar, upon the mullioned windows of Malory, 
and was gratified by one faint gleam of a passing 
candle from a gallery window. 

“That’s a nice old woman, odd as she is; 
she looks quite like a lady; she’s certainly not 
the W’oman we saw in church to-day ; how well 
she looked ; what a nice figure, that time, as she 


18 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


stood looking from the shore ; that cloak thing 
is loose to be sure ; but, by Jove, she might have 
been a girl almost ; and what large eyes she has 
got, and a well-shaped face. She must have 
been quite charming, about a hundred years ago ; 
she’s not the mother : she’s too old ; a grand- 
aunt, perhaps ; what a long talk we had, and I 
such a fool, listening to all that rubbish, and 
never getting in a word about the people, that 
peerless creature !” 

His walk home to Cardyllian was desultory 
and interrupted. I should not like to risk my 
credit by relating how often he halted on his 
way, and how long, to refresh his eyes with the 
dim outlines of the trees and chimneys of Mal- 
ory : and how, very late and melancholy and 
abstracted, he reached his crib in the Yerney 
Arms. 

Early next moniing, in pursuance of a clever 
idea, Tom Sedley made, I admit, his most pic- 
turesque and becoming toilet. It consisted of 
his black velvet knickerbocker suit, wdth those 
refined jack-boots of shining leather, and the 
most charming jerry that had ever appeared in 
Cardyllian, and away he marched over the hill, 
wdiile the good people of the town were chump- 
ing their muffins and sipping their tea, to the 
back gate of Malory. 

It stood half open, and with as careless a bold- 
ness as he could assume, in he w'ent, and walked 
confidently up the straight farm-yard lane, girt 
wdth high thorn hedges. Here, bribing a rustic 
wdio showed symptoms of churlishness with half 
a crowm, he was admitted into a sort of farm- 
yard, under pretext of examining the old mo- 
nastic chapel and refectory, now used as a barn, 
and some other relics of the friary, which tourists 
W'ere wont to admire. 

From the front window of the refectory there 
is a fine view of the distant mountains. Also, 
as Tom Sedley recollected, a foreground view, 
under the. trees, in front of the hall door, and 
there, with a sudden bound at his heart, he be- 
held the two ladies who had yesterday occupied 
the Malory pew, the old and the young, busy 
about the flower-bed, with garden gauntlets on, 
and trowel in hand. 

They were chatting together cheerily enough, 
but he could not hear what they said. The 
young lady now stood up from her work, in a 
dress which looked to him like plain holland; 
she had on one of those poked bonnets of the 
same material, which were very effectual sun- 
shades, and became some faces so well, wdien 
ruralizing young ladies wore them, some years 
ago. 

The young lady had pushed hers a little back, 
and stood on the grass, at the edge of the flowers, 
with her trowel glittering in the early sun in 
her slender right hand, which rested upon her 
left ; her pretty right foot was advanced a little 
on the short grass, and show'ed just its tip over 
the edge of the flower-bed. A homely dress and 
rustic appliances. But, oh ! that oval, beautiful 
face ! 

Tom Sedley — the ‘‘peeping Tom” of this story 


— from his deep monastic window between th 
parting of the tall trees looked down upon thi 
scene in a breathless rapture. Front the palm 
days of the Roman Pantheon down, w'as eve 
Flora so adored ? 

From under his Gothic arch, in his monkis 
shade, Tom could have stood, he fancied, for 
ever, gazing as friar has seldom gazed upon hi 
pictured saint, on the supernatural portra: 
which his enthusiasm worshiped. 

The young lady, as I have described hei 
looking down upon her old companion, sai 
something with a little nod, and smiled ; the 
she looked up at the tree tops from where th 
birds were chirping ; so Tom had a fair view o 
her wonderful face, and though he felt himsel 
in imminent danger of detection, he could nc 
move. Then her eyes, with a sidelong glance 
dropped on the window where he stood, an 
passed on instantly. 

With the instinct which never deceives us, h 
felt her glance touch him, and knew that he wr 
detected. The young lady turned quietly, an 
looked seaward for a few moments. Tom relieve 
his suspense with a sigh ; he hoped he migl 
pass muster for a tourist, and that the privilege 
of such visitors had not been abridged by tb 
recluses. 

The young lady then quietly turned and rc 
Slimed her work, as if nothing ha,d happened 
but, I think, she said something to her elder! 
companion, for that slim lady, in a tweed shaw 
closely broached across her breast, stood u] 
walked a step or two backward upon the gras; 
and looked straight up at the window, with tl 
inquisitive frown of a person a little dazzled c 
near-sighted. 

Honest Tom Sedley, who was in a rather mo 
bid state all this morning, felt his heart thre 
again, and drum against his ribs, as he aflfecte 
to gaze in a picturesque absorption upon the di 
tant headlands. 

The old lady, on the other hand, having dis 
tinctly seen in the deep-carved panel of that ai 
tique ivall the full-length portrait of our banc 
some young friend, Tom Sedley, in his kiilin 
knickerbocker suit of black velvet, with his ivor 
headed cane in his hand and that “ stunning 
jerry which so exactly suited his countenance 
and of which he believed no hatter but his ow 
possessed the pattern, or could produce a simik 
masterpiece. 

The old lady with her hand raised to fend of 
the morning sun that came flickering throug 
the branches on her wrinkled forehead, and he 
light gray eyes peering on him, had no notio 
of the awful power of her gaze upon that “im 
pudent young man.” 

With all his might Tom Sedley gazed at th 
Welsh headlands, without even winking, ivhil 
he felt the basilisk eye of the old spinster ii 
gray tweed upon him. So intense ivas his stare 
that old Pandillion at last seemed to nod hi 
mighty head, and finally to submerge himseh 
in the sea. When he ventured a glance down 
w’ard, he saw Miss Anne Sheckleton with quid 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


19 


steps entering the house, while the young lady 
had recommenced working at a more distant 
flower-bed with the same quiet diligence. 

It was to be feared that the old lady was taking 
steps ^or his expulsion. He preferred anticipa- 
ting her measures, and not caring to be caught 
in the window, left the refectory, and walked 
down the stone stairs, whistling and tapping the 
wall with the tip of his cane. 

To him, as the old play-books say, entered 
from the side next the house, and just as he set 
the sole of his resplendent boot upon the paving- 
stones, a servant — short, strong, and surly was 
the man. He did not seem disposed for vio- 
lence, however, for he touched an imaginary hat- 
brim as he came up, and informed Mr. Sedley, 
who was properly surprised and pained to hear 
it, that he had in fact committed a trespass ; 
that since it had been let, the place was no 
longer open to the inspection of tourists ; and, in 
short, that he was requested to withdraw. 

Tom Sedley was all alacrity and regret. He 
had never been so polite to a groom in all his 
life. The man followed him down the back 
avenue, to see him out, which at another time 
would have stirred his resentment ; and when 
he held the gate open for him to emerge, Tom 
gave him no less than three half-crowns — a prodi- 
gality whereat his eyes opened, if not his heart, 
and he made a gruff apology for the necessities 
imposed by duty, and Tom interrupted him 
with — 

“ Quite right, perfectly right ; you could do 
nothing else. I hope the la — your master is 
not vexed. You must say I told you to mention 
how very much pained I was at having made 
such a mistake. Say that I, Mr. Sedley, regret 
it very much, and beg to apologize. Pray don’t 
forget. Good-morning ; and I’m very sorry for 
having given you so much trouble — this long 
walk.” 

This tenderness his bow-legged conductor 
was also in a mood to receive favorably. In 
fact, if he had not told him his name was Sed- 
ley, he might have settled affirmatively the 
question at that moment before his mind — 
whether the intruder from whom silver flowed 
so naturally and refreshingly might not possibly 
be the Prince of Wales himself, who had passed 
through the village of Ware, only seven miles 
away, three weeks before. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A NIGHT SAIL. 

Poor Tom Sedley ! The little excitement 
of parting with the bull-necked keeper of his 
“garden of beauty” over, his spirits sunk. He 
could not act the unconscious tourist again, and 
recommit the premeditated mistake of the morn- 
ing. His exclusion was complete. 

Tom Sedley paid a visit that day at Hazel- 
den, and was depressed, and dull, and absent to 
such a degree, that Miss Charity Etherage, after 


he had gone away, canvassed the matter very 
earnestly, and wondered whether he was quite 
well, and hoped he had not had bad news from 
London. 

I don’t know how Tom got over all that day ; 
but at about four o’clock, having paid his penny 
at the toll-gate of the pier of Cardyliian, he was 
pacing up and down that breezy platform, and 
discussing with himself the possibility of remain- 
ing for another Sunday, on the chance of again 
seeing the Malory ladies in church. 

Lifting up his eyes, in his meditation, he saw 
a cutter less than a mile away, making swiftly 
for the pierhead, stooping to the breeze as she 
flew, and beating up the spray in sparkling clouds 
from her bows. His practiced eye recognized at 
a glance the “Flake,” the victorious yacht of 
Cleve Yerney. With this breeze it was a run 
without a tack from Ware jetty. 

In less than five minutes she furled her sails, 
and dropped anchor close to the pier stair, and 
Cleve Verney in another minute stepped upon it 
from his punt. 

“You’re to come back in her, to Ware, this 
evening,” said he, as they shook hands. “I’m 
so glad I’ve found you. I’ve to meet a friend at 
the Verney Arms, but our talk won’t take very 
long; and how have you been amusing yourself 
all day? Rather slow, isn’t it?” 

Tom Sedley told his story. 

“ Well, and what’s the name f' inquired Cleve. 

“ I can’t tell ; they don’t know at the hotel ; 
the Etherages don’t know. I asked Castle Ed- 
wards, and he doesn’t know either,” said Sedley. 

“ Yes, but that fellow, the servant, who turned 
you out at Malory — ” 

“He did not turn me out. I was going 
interrupted Tom Sedley. 

“ Well, who saw you out ? You made him a 
present ; he’d have told you, of course. Did he ?” 

“I didn’t ask him.” 

“ Come, that’s being very delicate indeed ! 
All I can say is, if I were as spoony as you are 
on that girl, I’d have learned all about her long 
ago. It’s nothing to me ; but if you find out her 
name, I know two or three fellows in town who 
know every thing about every body, and I’ll make 
out the whole story — that is, if she’s any body.” 

‘ ‘ By Jove ! that’s very odd. There he is^ j ust 
gone into the Golden Lion, that groom, that serv- 
ant, that Malory man,” exclaimed Tom Sedley 
very eagerly, and staring hard at the open door 
of the quaint little pot-house. 

“ Well, go ; give him a pound, it’s well worth . 
it,” laughed Cleve. “I’m serious, if you want 
to learn it ; no fellow like that can resist a pound ; 
and if you tell me the name, I’ll make you out 
all the rest, I really will, when I get to town. 
There, don’t let him get off, and you’ll find me 
at the Verney Arms.” 

So saying, Cleve, nodding his irresolute friend 
toward the Golden Lion, walked swiftly away to 
meet the Reverend Isaac Dixie. But Dixie was 
not at the Chancery ; only a letter, to say that 
“most unhappily”* that morning Clay Rectory 
was to undergo an inspection by a Commissioner 


20 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


of Dilapidations ; but that, D. V., be would place 
bimself next day, at the appointed hour, at his 
honored pupil’s disposal. 

‘‘ Those shovel-hatted martinets ! 

they never allow a minute for common sense, or 
any thing useful — always pottering over their 
clerical drill and pipe clay,” said Cleve, who, 
when an idea once entered his mind, pursued it 
with a terrible concentration, and hated an hour’s 
delay. 

So out he came disappointed, and joined Sed- 
ley near the Golden Lion. 

They said little for a time, but walked on, side 
by side, and found themselves sauntering along 
the road toward Malory together. 

“Well, Sedley, I forgot, — what about that 
man ? did he tell you any thing ?” 

“I do believe if a fellow once allows a girl to 
get into his head, ever so little, he’s in a sort of 
way drunk — worse than drunk — systematically 
foolish,” said honest Sedley, philosophizing. 
“ I’ve been doing nothing but idiotic things ever 
since church- time yesterday.” 

“Well, but what did he say ?” 

‘ ‘ He took the pound, and devil a thing he 
said. He wouldn’t tell any thing about them. 
I give you leave to laugh at me. I know I’m 
the greatest ass on earth, and I think he’s the 
ugliest brute I ever saw, and the most uncivil ; 
and, by Jove, if I stay here much longer, I think 
he’ll get all my money from me. He doesn’t 
ask for it, but I go on giving it to him ; I can’t 
help it ; the beast!” 

‘ ‘ Isn’t there a saying about a sage, or some- 
thing, and his money being soon parted?” asked 
Cleve. “ I think if I were so much gone about 
a girl as you are, and on such easy terms with 
that fellow, and tipped him so handsomely, I’d 
have learned her name, at least, before now.” 

“ I can’t ; every thing goes wrong with me. 
Why should I risk my reason^ and fall in love 
with the moon ? The girl wouldn’t look at me ; 
by Jove, she’ll never even see me ; and it’s much 
better so, for nothing can possibly come of it but 
pain to me, and fun to every one else. The late 
train does not stop at our station. I can’t go 
to-night ; but, by Jove, I’ll be off in the morning. 
I will. Don’t you think I’m right, Cleve ?” 

Tom Sedley stopped short, and faced his 
friend — who was, in most matters, his oracle — 
earnestly, laying his hand upon his arm. Cleve 
laughed at his vehemence, for he knew Tom’s 
impulsive nature, his generous follies, and terri- 
ble impetuosity, and, said he — “ Right, Tom ; 
always a philosopher ! Nothing like the radical 
cure, in such a case, absence. If the cards won’t 
answer, try the dice, if they won’t do, try the balls. 
I’m afraid this is a bad venture ; put your heart 
to sea in a sieve ! No, Tom, that precious freight- 
age is for a more substantial craft. I suppose 
you have seen your last of the young lady, and 
it would be a barren ft of friendship to say that 
I believe you have made any impression. There- 
fore save yourself, fly, and try what absence will 
do, and work and play, and eating and drinking. 


and sleeping abundantly in a distant scene, to 
dissipate the fumes of your intoxication, steal 
you away from the enchantress, and restore you 
to yourself. Therefore I echo — go.” 

“I’m sure you think it, though you’re half 
joking,” said Tom Sedley. 

“ Well, let us come on. I’ve half a mind to 
go up myself and have a peep at the refectory,” 
said Cleve. 

“To what purpose ?” 

“Archaeology,” said Cleve. 

“If you go in there, after what occurred this 
morning, by Jove, Pll not wait for you,” said 
Sedley. 

“Well, come along ; there’s no harm, I sup- 
pose, in passing by. The Queen’s highway, I 
hope, isn’t shut up,” answered Yerney. 

Sedley sighed, looked toward Malory, and not 
being in a mood to resist, walked on toward the 
enchanted forest and castle, by his companion’s 
side. 

When they came by the dark and narrow cross- 
road that skirts the southern side of Malory to 
the farm-yard gate, nailed on its pier, on a square 
bit of board, in fresh black and white paint, they 
read the following words : — 

Notice. 

No admission at this gate to any hut servants or others 
employed at Malory. 

Any person found trespassing within the walls will he 
prosecuted according to law. 

— September, 18 — . 

When the young men, in a momentary silence, 
read this warning, the ingenuous countenance of 
Tom Sedley flushed crimson to the very roots of 
his hair, and Cleve Yerney was seized with a fit 
of laughter that grew more and more violent the 
more grave and reproachful grew Tom Sedley’s 
aspect. 

“ Well, Tom, I think, if we have any dignity 
left, we had better turn our backs upon this in- 
hospitable refectory, and seek comfort elsewhere. 
By Jove! a pretty row you must have made 
up there this morning to oblige the Governor to 
declare the place in a state of siege, and mount 
his artillery.” 

“ Come away, Cleve ; that is, as soon as you’ve 
done laughing at that board. Of course you 
know as well as I do that my coming in and 
looking, as I hope any gentleman might, at that 
stupid old barn this morning, could not possibly 
be the cause of that offensive notice. If you 
think it is pointed at me, of course it’s more 
amusing, but if not, hang me if I can see the 
joke.” 

Tom Sedley was out of spirits, and a little 
testy, and very silent all the way back to Car- 
dyllian. He refused Cleve’s invitation to Ware. 
He made up his mind to return to London in 
the morning ; and this being his last evening in 
this part of the world, he must spend it at Hazel- 
den. 

So these young gentlemen dined together at 
the Yerney Arras, and it grew dark as they sat 
by the open window at their wine, and the moon 
got up and silvered the distant peaks of shadowy 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


21 


mountains, and they grew silent and dreamy as 
they might in the spell of distant music. 

But the people of Hazelden kept early hours, 
and Tom Sedley suddenly recollected that he 
must go. They parted, therefore, excellent 
friends, for Sedley had no suspicion that Cleve 
was his rival, and Cleve could afford to be 
amused at Sedley’s rivalry. 

When Verney got on board there was a light 
breeze. “We’ll run down toward Penruthyn 
Priory,” said he; and round went the cutter, 
leaning with the breeze, and hissing and snort- 
ing through the gentle swell as she flew on 
toward the headland on which stands that pretty 
monastic ruin. 

She glided into the black shadow cast by the 
solemn wall of cloud that now hid the moon 
from sight, away from the hundred star-like 
lights of Cardyllian, flying swiftly backward on 
the left, close under the shapeless blackness of 
the hill, that rises precipitously from the sea, 
and over which lies' the path from the town to 
Malory, and onward by the wooded grounds of 
that old mansion, now an indistinguishable mass 
of darkness, whose outline was hardly visible 
against the sky. 

I dare say the thought of crossing the lights 
of these windows had its share in prompting 
this nautical freak, and toward these Cleve’s 
gaze was turned, when, on a sudden, the man 
looking out at the bows shouted “ Starboard;” 
but before the boat had time to feel the helm, 
the end of the cutter’s boom struck the mast of 
a small boat ; a shout from several voices rose 
suddenly, and was almost instantaneously far 
behind. Round went the yacht; they hailed 
the boat. 

“She’s lost her mast, I think,” said one of 
Cleve’s men. 

“ D — you, where are your lights ?” shouted 
a stern, fierce voice. 

“No one overboard?” cried Cleve. 

“No, no. You’ll be the Wave, sure? Mr. 
Cleve Verney, from Ware?” replied a different 
voice. 

“Who are those fellows, do you know?” 
asked Cleve of his men. 

“That will be Christmas Owen, sir.” 

“ Oh I” exclaimed Cleve. “And the other’s 
the old gentleman from Malory?” 

“ Well, I think ’twill be him, sure.” 

In another minute the punt of the yacht was 
alongside the boat, with a message from Cleve, 
inviting the old gentleman on board, and offer- 
ing to put him ashore wherever he liked best. 

Shortly and grimly the courtesy was refused. 
The wrath of the old man, however, seemed to 
have subsided, and he gathered himself within 
the folds of his silence again. All had passed 
in a darkness deeper than that of Styx. A 
dense screen of cloud had entirely hid the moon ; 
and though so near, Cleve could not see the old 
man of Malory, about whom he was curious, 
with a strange and even tender sort of curiosity, 
which, certainly, no particular graciousness on 
his part had invited. In a few minutes more 


the boat, with the aid of another spar, was on 
her course again, and the Wave more than a 
mile away on hers. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE REVEREND ISAAC DIXIE. 

At five o’clock next day Cleve Verney was 
again in Cardyllian. 

Outside “The Chancery” stood a “fly,” only 
just arrived. He had come only a minute or 
two before, and was waiting in the chamber 
which was still called the state room. . 

The room is long and paneled with oak, and 
the farther end is the fire-place. The ceiling 
above the cornice slopes at each side with the 
roof, so as to give it quite a chapel-like effect ; a 
high carved oak mantel-piece, and a carved wains- 
cotting embedding in its panels a symmetrical 
system of cupboards, closed the perspective, and, 
as Cleve, entered at the door in the farther wall, 
gave effect to the solitary figure of the Reverend 
Isaac Dixie, who was standing with his back to 
the fire-place on the threadbare hearth rug, 
waiting, with an angelic smile, and beating time 
to a sacred melody, I am willing to believe, with 
his broad flat foot. 

This clerical gentleman looked some six or 
seven-and-forty years old, rather tall than other- 
wise, broad, bland, and blue-chinned, smiling, 
gaitered, and single-breasted. 

“Capital place to read out the Ten Com- 
mandments,” exclaimed Cleve. “Glad to see 
you, old Dixie. It’s a long time since we met.” 

The clergyman stepped forward, his chin a 
little advanced, his head a little on one side, 
smiling rosily with nearly closed eyes, and with 
a broad hand expanded to receive his former 
pupil’s greeting. 

“I’ve obeyed the summons, you see; punc- 
tually, I hope. Delighted, my dear, distin- 
guished young pupil, to meet you, and congratu- 
late you on your brilliant successes, delighted, 
my dear Cleve,” murmured the divine, in a mild 
rapture of affection. 

“That’s not so neat as the old speech, Dixie ; 
don’t you remember ?” said Cleve, nevertheless 
shaking his great soft red hand kindly enough. 
‘ ‘ What \vas it ? Yes, you were to be my tuta'- 
men, and I your dulce decus. Wasn’t that it?” 

‘ ‘ Ha, yes, I may have said it ; a little classic 
turn, you know ; ha, ha ! not altogether bad — 
not altogether? We have had many agreeable 
conversations — colloquies — you and I, Mr. Ver- 
ney, together, in other and very happy days,” 
said the clergyman, with a tender melancholy 
smile, while his folded hands faintly smoothed 
one another over as if in a dream of warm water 
and wash-balls. 

“Do you remember the day I shied that 
awful ink bottle at your head? by Jove, it was 
as large as a tea-pot. If I had hit you that 
time, Dixie, I don’t think we’d ever have found 
a mitre to fit your head.” 


22 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


‘ ‘ Arch, arch — ha, ha ! dear me ! yes — I had 
forgot that — yes, quite — you were always an 
arch boy, Cleve. Always arch, Mr. Verney.” 

“Very arch — yes, it was what old Toler 
called the office bottle ; do you remember ? it 
weighed three or four pounds. I think you 
were glad it was broken ; you never got one like 
it into the room again. I say, if it had caught 
you on the head, what a deal of learning and 
other things the Church would have lost?” 

Whenever it was Cleve’s pleasure to banter, 
the Reverend Isaac Dixie took it in good part. 
It was his ancient habit, so on this occasion he 
simpered agreeably. 

‘ ‘ It was in the little study at Malory. By- 
the-by, who are those people you’ve put into 
Malory?” continued Cleve. 

“Ha — the — the people who occupy the 
house f asked the clergyman, throwing out a 
question to gain time. 

“Come — who are they?” said Cleve, a little 
briskly, throwing himself back in his seat at the 
same time, and looking in Dixie’s face. , 

“Well, Tm the person responsible; in fact 
the lease is to me.” 

“ Yes, I know that ; go on.” 

“Well, I took it at the request of Miss Sheckle- 
ton, an elderly lady, whom — ” 

“Whom I don’t care to hear about,” inter- 
rupted Cleve. “There’s an old gentleman — 
there’s a young lady; who are they? I want 
their names.” 

The Reverend Isaac Dixie was evidently a 
little puzzled. Pie coughed, he looked down, 
he simpered, and shook his head. 

“You don’t want to tell me, Dixie.” 

“There is nothing I should not be roost happy 
to tell my distinguished pupil. I’ve been always 
frank, quite frank with you, Mr. Verney. I’ve 
never had a secret.” 

Cleve laughed gently. 

“You wrong me if you think I have,” and 
the Rector of Clay dropped his eyes and colored 
a little, and coughed. “But this is not mine — 
and there really is a difficulty.” 

“Insuperable?” 

“ Well, really, I’m afraid that term expresses 
it but too truly,” acquiesced the clergyman. 

“What a bore!” exclaimed Cleve. “ Shut 
the window, if it isn’t too much trouble, like a 
dear old Dixie — a thousand thanks.” 

“I assure you I would not say it,” resumed 
the Rector of Clay, “if it were not so — and I 
hope I’m in the habit of speaking trut^ — and 
this secret, if so trifling a thing may be s'eriously 
so termed, is not mine, and therefore not at my 
disposal.” 

“ Something in that, old Dixie. Have a 
weed ?” he added, tendering his cigars. 

“Thanks, no; never smoke now,” said he, 
closing his eyes, and lifting his hand as if in a 
benediction. 

“Oh, to be sure, your Bishop — I forgot,” 
said Cleve. 

“Yes, a-ha; strong opinions ; very able lec- 
ture — you have no doubt read it.” 


“ With delight and terror. Death riding on 
a pipe clay colored horse. Sir Walter Raleigh, 
the man of sin, and the smoke of the bottomless 
pit, reeking of cheroots. You used not to be such 
a fool, old Dixie. I'm your bishop now ; I’ve 
said it, mind — and no one sees you,” said Cleve, 
again offering his cigars. 

“Well, well ; any thing, any thing ; thanks, 
just for owce, only once ;” and he selected one 
with a playful bashfulness. 

“ I’m your bishop — I don’t forget. But you 
must wait till I’m — what d’ye call it ? — con- 
secrated — there, you need not laugh. Upon 
my honor, I’m serious ; you shall have your 
choice; I swear you shall,” said Cleve Verney, 
who stood very near the title and estates of 
Verney, with all their comfortable advowsons 
appendant. 

The Reverend Isaac Dixie smiled affably and 
meekly with prospective gratitude, and said he 
softly — 

“I’m only too happy to think my distinguish- 
ed, and I may say, honored pupil, should deem 
me fit for a weighty charge in the Church ; and 
I may say, although Clay has been considered a 
nice little thing, some years ago, yet, since the 
vicar’s — I must say most unreasonable — claim 
has been allowed, it is really, I should be ashamed 
to say how trifling in emolument ; w'e have all 
our crosses to bear, my dear pupil, friend, and I 
may say, patron — but it is good, nay, pleasant to 
me to have suffered disappointments, since in 
their midst comes no trifling balm in the confi- 
dence you are pleased to evidence in my humble 
fitness.” 

The clergyman was moved. A gleam of the 
red western sun through the window, across his 
broad, meek, and simpering countenance, helped 
the . effect of his blinking eyes, and he hastily 
applied his handkerchief. 

“Isaac, Isaac, you shan’t come that over me. 
I dorCt think you fit — not a bit. I’m not an Aris- 
tides, only a bishop ; and I don’t pretend to more 
conscience than the rest.” His eye rested on 
him with an unconscious disdain. “And for 
the life of me, I don’t know why I intend doing 
any thing for you, except that I promised, and 
your name’s lucky, I suppose ; you used to keep 
telling me, don’t you remember, that all the 
promises were to Abraham, Isaac, and J acob ? 
and you are Isaac, in the middle — medio tutissl- 
mus — and I think Isaac is the queerest mixture 
of Jew and boodle in the Old Testament, and — 
and — so on.” 

The sentence ended so because Cleve w^as now 
lighting his cigar. The clergyman smiled affa- 
bly, and even waggishly, as one who can bear to 
be quizzed, and has a confidence in the affection 
of the joker ; and Cleve smoked on serenely and 
silently for a little. 

“ And those are really my intentions respect- 
ing you,” he resumed ; “ but you are to do as I 
bid you in the mean time, you know. I say, 
you mustn’t snub your bishop ; and, upon my 
lionor, I’m perfectly serious, you shall never see 
my face again, nor hear of me more, if you don’t, 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


23 


this minute, tell me every thing you know about 
those people at Malory. ” 

“ Are you really seriousy Mr. Verney ? — really 
so?” 

“ Yes, quite so ; and I can keep my word, as 
you know. Who are they?” 

“ You are placing me in the most awkward 
ix)ssible position ; pray consider whether you 
really do make a point of it.” 

“ I make a point of it.” 

“ I, of course, keep nothing from you, when you 
press it in that way ; and besides, althougli it is 
awkward, it is in a measure right, inasmuch as 
you are connected with the property, I may say, 
and have a right to exact information, if you thus 
so insist upon it as a duty.” 

‘•Come, Dixie, who are they!” said Cleve, 
peremptorily. 

“Well, he’s in some difficulties just now, and 
it is really vital that his name should not be dis- 
closed, so I entreat you won’t mention it ; and 
especially you won’t mention me as having di- 
“vudged it.” 

‘ ‘ Certainly ; of course I don’t want to set the 
beaks on your friend. I shan’t mention his 
name, depend upon it, to mortal. I’ve just one 
reason for wishing to know, and I have brought 
you a journey, here and back, of a hundred and 
forty miles, precisely to answer me this question, 
and I will know.” 

“ Well, Mr. Verney, my dear sir, I venture to 
wash my hands of consequences, and unfeigned- 
ly relying upon your promise, I tell you that the 
old gentleman, now residing in very strict seclu- 
sion at Malory, is Sir Booth — ” he paused as if 
willing that Cleve should supply the surname, 
and so, perhaps, relieve him of a part of the dis- 
closure. 

“ Sir Booth wliatV* 

“Don’t you know ?” 

“ No. You can’t mean Sir Booth Eanshawe.” 

“ Sir Booth — Sir Booth Eanshawe; yes,” said 
the clergyman, looking down bashfully, “I c/o 
mean Sir Booth Eanshawe.” 

“ Jove ! And don’t you think it was rather 
a liberty, bringing Sir Booth Eanshawe to occupy 
our house at Malory, after all that has passed ?” 
demanded Cleve Verney, rather sternly. 

“ Well, no, it really did not — I’m grieved if I 
have erred in judgment ; but it never did strike 
me in that light — never in that point of view ; 
and Sir Booth doesn’t know who it belongs to. 
It never struck me to tell him, and I don’t think 
he has an idea.” 

“ / .uon’t care ; but if my wwc/e hears, lidll not 
like it, I can tell you.” 

“I should not for any earthly consideration 
have made myself accessory to any thing that 
could possibly have given a moment’s pain to 
iny honored patron, the Honorable Kiffyn Eulke 
Verney, or to my honored pupil — ” 

“ Why, yes, my uncle might do you a mis- 
chief ; as for me, I don’t care. Only I think it 
was rather cool, considering how savage he has 
always been — what a lot of money he has cost 
us — getting up contests and petitions, and villify- 


ing us wherever he could. He has left no stone 
unturned — but that’s all over; and I think you’ve 
committed an indiscretion, because he hasn’t a - 
guinea left, and my sensible old grandmother 
will positively make you pay the rent, and that 
will be as unpleasant as sharing your tithes with 
the vicar.” 

“ We are not all so wise as perhaps we should 
be in our generation,” said the Reverend Isaac 
Dixie, with an apostolic simper that was plaint- 
ive and simple. To quiet the reader’s uneasi- 
ness, however, I may mention that this good man 
had taken particular care to secure himself against 
a possible loss of a shilling in the matter. “ And 
there are claims to which it is impossible to be 
deaf — there is a voice that seems to say, turn 
not thou away.” 

“Do stop that. You know very well that 
Booth Mildmay was once a man who could give 
you a lift ; and you did not know, perhaps, that 
he is ruined.” 

“Pardon me; but too well. It is to protect 
him against immediate and melancholy conse- 
quences that I ventured, at some little risk, per- 
haps, to seek for him an asylum in the seclusion 
of Malory.” 

“Well, it wasn’t all sentiment, my dear Dixie ; 
there’s a gold thread of a raveled tuft running 
through it somewhere ; for whatever the romance 
of Christianity may say, the practice of the apos- 
tles is, very much, nothing for nothing ; and if 
old Mildmay wasn’t worth obliging, I dare say 
Hammerdon wrote or spoke to you. Come, your 
looks confess it.” 

“Lord Hammerdon, I have no hesitation in 
saying, did suggest — ” 

“ There, that will do. Will you come over 
to Ware, and dine with me ? I’m sure old Jones 
can give you a bed.” 

The Reverend Isaac Dixie, however, could not 
come. There was to be a religious meeting in 
the morning at Clay school-house ; the bishop 
was to be there ; and the rector was himself to 
move a resolution, and had not yet considered 
what he was to say. 

So he stepped with a bland countenance and 
a deliberate stride into his fly again ; and from 
its window smirked sadly, and waved his hand to 
the future patron of Eribbledon Cum Eleece, as 
he drove away; and the clergyman, who was 
not always quite celestial, and could, on safe oc- 
casions, be sharp and savage enough, exploded 
in a coarse soliloquy over the money, and the 
day and the ease he had sacrificed to the curiosi- 
ty of that young man, who certainly had some 
as odious pdnts as it had ever been his lot to 
meet with. 


CHAPTER X. 

READING AN EPITAPH. 

Cleve Verney next afternoon was again on 
board his yacht. Wind and tide both favoring, 
the cutter was running under a press of canvas 
that brought her gunwale to the water’s edge once 


24 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


more for Penruthyn Priory. This time it was 
no mere aquatic whim ; it was pursuit. 

Searching the wooded seaboard of Malory 
with his glass, from the terrace of Ware, he had 
seen an open * sail-boat waiting at the jetty. 
Down came a servant with cloaks and rugs. 
Cleve grew more and more interested as he ad- 
justed the focus of his glass more exactly. On 
a sudden, from the little door in the boundary 
wall, emerged two ladies. There was no mis- 
take ; he could swear to them. They were the 
very same whom he had seen on Sunday in the 
Malory seat. 

He watched till he saw the boat round the 
point, and then — “Yes,” he thought, “ they are 
certainly going to Penruthyn Priory. ” 

And away went Cleve Verney in pursuit of 
the shadow which he secretly adored. From 
Ware to Penruthyn Priory is about six miles, 
and by the time the pursuing cutter was in mo- 
tion the chase had made more than a mile of 
her course, and was within two of the landing 
point at the ruin. 

Cleve saw the two ladies disembark. It was 
now plain that they had come either to visit the 
ruins, or for a walk in that wild and lonely park 
called the Warren. Cleve had brought his gun 
with him, only for an excuse. 

Little more than five minutes after the arrival 
of the open boat, Cleve Verney set his foot upon 
the rude landing place, as old perhaps as the 
Priory itself; a clumsy little pier, constructed 
of great rocks, overgrown with sea-rack, over 
which slippery platform he strode with reckless 
haste, and up that steep and pretty little winding 
lane, the trees overhanging which look centuries 
old, stooping and mantled in ivy. They may 
have heard the tinkle of the bells of the prior’s 
mule, as he ambled beneath their boughs, and 
the solemn swell of the monkish requiem from 
the melancholy little church-yard close by, under 
the old Priory windows. The thick stone wall 
that fences this ancient by-road is clasped to- 
gether with ivy, and hoar with lichens, irregular, 
and broken as the battlements of a mined tower. 
The approach, and the place itself, are in their 
picturesque sadness and solitude the very scene 
and setting of such a romance as Cleve Verney 
was pursuing. 

Into the Warren, by the stile up this road’s 
side, went Cleve, and climbed the gray rocky 
hillock that commands an extensive view of that 
wild park ; but there they were not. 

Well, they must, then, have pursued the path 
up to the Priory, and thither he followed. 

Oh, ho ! here they are ; the young lady at a 
little distance looking up at the singular ruin ; 
the old lady engaged in an active discussion with 
shrewish old Mrs. Hughes, who w'as very deaf 
and often a little tipsy, and who was now testily 
refusing the ladies admission within the iron gate 
which affords access to the ruins, of which she 
held the keys. 

No situation could have been more fortunate 
for Cleve. The Warren and the Priory being 
his uncle’s property, and the termagant Mrs. 


Hughes his officer, he walked up to the visitor, 
inquired very courteously the object of the aj>- 
plication, and forthwith ordered the portress to 
open the gate and deliver up her keys ; which 
she did, a good deal frightened at sight of so 
unexpected a deus ex machind. 

An unmistakable gentleman, handsome, and 
plainly a sort of prince in this region, the old 
lady, although she did not know to whom she was 
obliged, was pleased at his offer to act as cico- 
rone here, and accepted it graciously. 

“ My young friend will be very glad ; she 
draws a little, and enjoys such sights immensely. 
Margaret !” she called. The young lady turned, 
and Cleve saw before him once more in flesh and 
blood that wonderful portrait of Beatrice Cenci, 
which had haunted him for three days. 

The young lady heard what her companion 
had to say, and for a moment her large eyes 
rested on Cleve with a glance that seemed to 
him at once haughty, wild, and shy. 

With one hand he held the gate open, and in 
the other his hat was raised respectfully, as side 
by side they walked into the open court. They 
each bowed as they passed, the elder lady very 
cheerily, the younger with a momentary glance 
of the same unconscious superiority, which 
wounded him more than his pride would have 
allowed ; and a puzzled recollection flitted across 
his mind of having once heard, he could not re- 
member when, that Booth Fanshawe had mar- 
ried a beautiful Italian, an heiress (a princess 
— wasn’t she?) — at all events, a scion of one of 
their proud old houses, whose pedigrees run back 
into the Empire, and dwarf into parvenus the 
great personages of Burke’s Peerage. Wliat 
made it worse was, that there was no shyness, no 
awkwardness. She talked a good deal to her 
companion, and laughed slightly once or twice, 
in a very sweet tone. The old lady w^as affable 
and friendly ; the young lady, on the contrary, 
so far from speaking to him, seemed hardly to 
give herself the trouble of listening to what he 
said. This kind of exclusion, to which the pet- 
ted young man certainly w^as not accustomed, 
galled him extremely, the more so that she 
looked, he thought, more beautiful than ever, 
and that her voice, and pretty slightly foreign 
accent, added another charm to the spell. 

He made them a graceful little lecture on the 
building, as they stood in the court. If she had 
any cleverness, she would see with what a playful 
and rapid grace he could convey real information. 
The young lady looked from building to building 
as he described them, but with no more interest 
in the speaker, it seemed to him, than if the 
bellman of Cardyllian had been reading it from 
a handbill. He had never done any thing so 
well in the House of Commons, and here it was 
accepted as a piece of commonplace. The worst 
of it was that there was no finesse in all this. 
It was in perfect good faith that this beautiful 
young lady was treating him like a footman. 

Cleve was intensely piqued. Had she been 
less lovely, his passion might have recoiled into 
disgust ; as it was, with a sort of vindictive 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


25 


adoration, he vowed that he would yet compel 
her to hang upon his words as angels’ music, to 
think of him, to watch for him, to love him with 
all that wild and fiery soul which an intuition 
assured him was hers. 

So with this fierce resolve at his heart, he 
talked very agreeably with the accessible old 
lady, seeming, in a spirit, I dai:e say, altogether 
retaliatory, to overlook the young lady’s presence 
a good deal. 

“I’ve got the key of the church, also ; you’ll 
allow me, I hope, to show it to you. It is really 
very curious — a much older style than the rest 
of the building — and there are some curious 
monuments and epitaphs.” 

The old lady would be charmed, of course, 
and her young companion, to whom she turned, 
would like it also. SoCleve, acting as porter, 
opened the ponderous door, and the party en- 
tered this dim and solemn Saxon chapel, and 
the young lady paused and looked round her, 
struck, as it seemed, with a sense of something 
new and very interesting. 

“ How strange ! How rude it is, and irregu- 
lar; not large, and yet how imposing!” mur- 
mured the girl, as she looked round with a 
momentary awe and delight. It was the first 
remark she had made, which it was possible for 
Cleve Verney to answer. 

“That’s so true ! considering how small it is, 
it does inspire a wonderful awe,” said he, catch- 
ing at the opportunity. “ It’s very dark, to be 
sure, and that goes a long way ; but its style is so 
rough and Cyclopean, that it overcomes one with 
a feeling of immense antiquity; and antiquity 
is always solemn ; a gift from people so remote 
and mysterious as those who built this chapel 
is affecting.” 

At this point Cleve Verney paused ; either his 
ideas fiiiled him, or he felt that they were lead- 
ing him into an oration. But he saw that the 
young lady looked at him, as he spoke, with some 
interest, and he felt more elated than he had done 
for many a day. 

“ Is that a broken pillar?” asked Miss Sheckle- 
ton — as I shall for the future call the elder lady. 

“That’s the font — very ancient — there’s some 
odd carving about it, which has puzzled our an- 
tiquaries,” said Cleve, leading the way to it. 

The young lady had not followed. His expo- 
sition was to Miss Sheckleton, whose inquisitive- 
ness protracted it. It was dry work for Cleve. 
The young lady had seated herself in a sort of 
oak stall, and was looking up at the groining of 
the round ribbed arches, at some distance. The 
effect was singular. She was placed in the deep 
chidro-oscuro, a strong gleam of light entering 
through a circular aperture in the side wall 
illuminated her head and face with a vivid and 
isolated effect ; her rich chestnut hair was now 
disclosed, her bonnet having fallen back, as she 
gazed upward, and the beautiful oval face was 
disclosed in the surrounding shadow with the 
sudden brilliancy and isolation of a picture in a 
phantasmagoria. 

• Verney’s eyes were not upon the font on 


which he was lecturing, his thoughts were wan- 
dering too, and Miss Sheckleton observed per- 
haps some odd vagueness and iteration in his 
remarks ; but the young lady changed her posi- 
tion, and was now examining another part of 
the church. 

Cleve either felt or fancied, seeing, as the 
Italians say, with the tail of his eye, that she 
was now, for a moment, looking at him, be- 
lieving herself unseen. If this were so, was it 
not the beginning of a triumph ? It made him 
strangely happy. 

If Cleve had seen those sights in town, I can’t 
say whether their effect would have been at all 
similar ; but beautiful scenery, like music, pre- 
disposes to emotion. Its contemplation is the 
unconscious abandonment of the mind to senti- 
ment, and once excite tenderness and melan- 
choly, and the transition to love is easy upon 
small provocations. In the country our visions 
flit more palpably before us ; there is nothing 
there, as amid the clatter and vulgarities of the 
town, to break our dreams. The beautiful rural 
stillness is monotony itself, and monotony is the 
spell and the condition of all mesmeric impres- 
sions. Hence young men, in part, run the 
• dangers of those enchanted castles called country 
houses, in which you lose your heads and hearts, 
whither you arrive jubilant and free, and whence 
you are led by delicate hands, with a silken hal- 
ter round your necks, with a gay gold ring in 
your obedient noses, and a tiny finger crooked 
therein, and with a broad parchment pinned 
upon your patient shoulders, proclaiming to the 
admiring world that your estates have gone the 
way of your liberties, and that you and they are ' 
settled for life. 

“ Now said he, pointing to a block of 
carved stone placed in the aisle, “is the monu- 
ment of old Martha Nokes ; pray ask your young 
lady to come for one moment ; it’s worth read- 
ing.” 

Margaret r' called the elder visitor, in the 
subdued tone suited to the sacred place. ‘ ‘ Come, 
darling, and see this.” 

“This inscription is’w'orth reading, and I can 
tell you about the old woman, for I remember 
her quite Avell. I was eight years old when she 
died. Old Martha Nokes ; she died in her hun- 
dred and twentieth year.” 

The young lady stood by and listened and 
read. The epitaph related her length of serv- 
ice, her fidelity, and other virtues, and that 
“this stone was placed here in testimony of the 
sincere and merited esteem, respect, and affection 
cherished for the deceased, by Eleanor, Vis- 
countess (Dowager) Verney, of Malory.” 

“There’s some beautiful embroidery on satin, 
worked by her more than a hundred and fifteen ■ 
years ago, at Ware,” said Cleve Verney. “ They 
say such work can’t be had now. ^In the 
course of her long pilgrimage^' you see by the 
epitaph, ‘ she had no less than twenty-three sub- 
stantial offers of marriage^ all which she declined^ 
preferring her single state to the many cares and 
trials of wedded life^ and willing also to remain 


26 


J 

THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


to the end of her days in the service of the family 
of Verney {to whom she was justly grateful)^ and 
in which she had commenced her active and useful, 
though humble life, in the reign of King George 
the First.' So you see she spent all her life 
with us ; and I’ll tell our people, if you should 
happen to pass near Ware — it’s not an hour’s 
sail across — and would care to see it, to show 
you her embroidery, and her portrait; and if 
thereJs any thing else you think worth looking 
at ; there are some pictures and bronzes ; they’ll 
be quite at your service ; my uncle is hardly 
ever at Ware ; and I only run down for a little 
boating and shooting, now and then.” 

“Thank you,” said the old lady, and utter 
silence followed. Her young companion glanced 
at her for a moment, and saw her look blank and 
even confounded. She averted her gaze, and 
something, I suppose, struck her as comical, for, 
wdth a sudden little silvery laugh, she said — 

“What a charming, funny old woman she 
must have been!” 

And with this excuse she laughed more — and 
again, after a little interval. Nothing more 
contagions than this kind of laughter, especially 
when one has an inkling of the cause. Cleve 
looked at the font, and lowered his large eyes 
to the epitaph of the Virgin Martha Nokes, and 
bit his lips, but he did laugh a little in spite of 
himself, for there was something nearly irresisti- 
ble in pleasant Miss Sheckleton’s look of vacant 
consternation. 


CHAPTER XI. 

FAREWELL. 

The young lady was instantly grave, with even 
a little fiery gleam of anger in her eyes, he 
thought. He could not help raising his also, 
now quite gravely and even respectfully, looking 
on her. 

“I think you know who we are,” she said a 
little suddenly and haughtily. 

“You are at present living at Malory, I be- 
lieve,” said he, with a respectful evasion. 

“Yes; but I mean ivho we are,” said Margaret, 
very pale, very proud, and with her splendid 
hazel eyes fixed full upon him with the irresisti- 
ble inspiration of truth. 

“ I have heard — in part accidentally — some- 
thing.” 

“Yes,” said the girl, you are Mr. Cleve Ver- 
ney, and my name is Fanshawe ; and my father. 
Sir Booth Fanshawe, is at present living at 
Malory.” 

“My dear! are you mad?" gasped Miss 
Sheckleton aghast. 

“ Yes. We are the people who live at Mal- 
ory, and my father had hoped that he might 
have escaped there the observation of all but the 
very few persons who take a friendly interest in 
him. The place was looked out arrd taken for 
us by a person of whom we knew nothing— a 
clergyman, I believe. I have now, for the first 
time, learned from that grave-stone to whom the 


place belongs. We know nothing of the towns- 
people or of neighbors. We have lived to our- 
selves ; and if he had known that Malory be- 
longed to the Verneys, I hope you believe he 
would neither have been mad or mean enough to 
come here, to live in the house of his enemies.” 

“ Oh, Margaret I Margaret! you have ruined 
your father,” said poor Miss Sheckleton, pale as 
a ghost, and with her trembling fingers in the 
air. 

“I assure you. Miss Fanshawe,” said Cleve, 
“you do me a cruel injustice when you class 
me with Sir Booth Fanshawe’s enemies. There 
have been those miserable money matters, in 
which I never had, nor could have had, any in- 
fluence whatsoever. And there has been politi- 
cal hostility, in which I have been the victim 
rather than the aggressor. Of course, I’ve had 
to fight my battles as best I could ; but I’ve 
never done any thing unfair or unmanly. . You 
plainly think me a personal enemy of Sir Booth’s. , 
It pains me that you do so. In the sense in 
which you seem to think it, I never was, nor in 
any sense could I continue to be so, in his 
present — his present — ” 

The young man hesitated for a word or a para- 
phrase to convey a painful meaning without of- 
fense. 

“ His present ruin, and his approaching ex- 
ile,” said the young lady. 

“I’m sure, sir, what you say is exactly so,” 
pleaded poor Miss Sheckleton, nervously. “It 
was, as you say, all about elections, and that 
kind of thing, which, with him, you know, neve! 
can be again. So, I’m sure, the feeling is all 
over. it, Mr. Verney ?” 

“I don’t think it matters much,” said the 
young lady, in the same tone of haughty defi- 
ance. “ I don’t — girls, I believe, never do un- 
derstand business and politics. All I know is 
this — that my father has been ruined. My father 
has been ruined, and that, I hope, will satisfy 
his enemies. I know he thinks, and other people 
think — people in no way mixed up in his affairs 
— people who are impartial — that it was the 
cruelty and oppression of Mr. Kiffyn Verney — 
your uncle, I think you say — that drove him to 
ruin. Well, you know now that my father is at 
Malory.” 

“ He does, darling. We may be overheard,” 
said Miss Sheckleton in an imploring tremor. 

But the young lady continued in the same 
clear tone — 

“ I can’t say what is considered fair and 
manly, as you say, in political enmity; but, 
seeing what it has done, I have no reason to be- 
lieve it very scrupulous or very merciful ; there- 
fore, with some diffidence, I ask only whether 
you can promise that he shall not be molested 
for a few days, until some other refuge shall 
have been provided for us? And when we 
shall have left England forever, you will have 
no more to fear from my father, and can afford, 
I think, to forget his name,” 

There was a kind of contradiction here, or 
rather one of those discords which our sense of 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


27 


harmony requires, and mysteriously delights in 
— for while her language was toned with some- 
thing of the anguish of pleading, her mien and 
look were those of a person dictating terms to 
the vanquished. Had she but known all, they 
might have been inspired by the workings of his 
heart. Her color had returned more brilliantly, 
her large eyes gleamed, and her beautiful eye- 
brow wore that anguine curve which is the only 
approach to a scowl which painters accord to 
angels. Thus, though her tones were pathetic, 
she stood like a beautiful image of Victory. 

In the silence that followed, Cleve stood be- 
fore her for a moment confounded. Too many 
feelings were on a sudden set in motion by this 
girl’s harangue, to find a distinct resultant in 
words. His pride was stung — something of 
anger was stirred within him ; his finer sympa- 
thies, too, w’ere moved, and a deeper feeling still. 

‘‘I’m afraid you think me a very mean per- 
son, indeed,” said Cleve. “To no one, not to 
my uncle, not to any living person, will I so 
much as hint that I know any thing of Sir Booth 
Fanshawe’s present place of abode. I don’t 
think that we men are ever quite understood by 
you. I hope that is it. I hope it is not that 
you entertain a particularly ill opinion of me. 
I haven’t deserved it, you’ll find I never shall. I 
hope you will employ me. I hope. Miss Sheckle- 
ton, you will employ me, wherever, in any way, 
you think I can be of use. Your having, 
although I know it is perfectly accidental, come 
to Malory, places me under a kind of obligation, 
I wish you would allow me to think so, of hos- 
pitality ; there is no room for generosity here ; 
it would be a misplaced phrase ; but I wish, veiy 
much, that you would put my good will to the 
proof, and rely upon my fidelity ; only give me 
a trial. ” 

I believe that every one who is speaking all 
in earnest, and, for the moment, quite from a 
good impulse, looks more beautiful in that mo- 
mentary glow of paradise; and certainly no 
handsomer young fellow, to my mind, could 
have been imagined than Cleve Yerney, as he 
stood uncovered before the beautiful stranger, 
and pleaded for her good opinion. 

The young lady was silent, and looked at 
Miss Sheckleton, as if deputing her to answer, 
and then looked away. 

“You’re very kind. I know you won’t de- 
ceive us, Mr. Yerney,” said Miss Sheckleton, 
with an imploring look, and laying her hand 
unconsciously upon his arm. “I am sure you 
won’t disappoint us ; but it is a great difficulty ; 

• you’ve no idea ; for Sir Booth feels very strongly, 
and in fact we don’t mention the name of your 
family to him ; and I’m sure — indeed I know — 
if he were aware that Malory was Yerney prop- 
erty, he would never have come here, and if I 
were to tell him, he would leave it at once. It 
was a very old friend. Lord Hammerdon, who 
employed a clergyman, a Mr. Dixie, I think, a 
friend of his, to look out a suitable place in 
a very quiet neighborhood ; and so, without 
making— without, indeed, the power of making 


inquiry, we came down here, and have just made 
the discovery — two discoveries, indeed— for not 
only does the place belong to your family, but 
you, Mr. Yerney, are aware that Sir Booth is 
here.” 

“ Sir Booth will do me the justice to trust my 
word. I assure you — I swear to you — no mor- 
tal shall learn the secret of his residence from 
me. I hope Miss Fanshawe believes me. I’m 
sure you do. Miss Sheckleton,” said Cleve. 

“We are both very much obliged,” said the 
old lady. 

The girl’s eyes were lowered. Cleve thought 
she made just a perceptible inclination to inti- 
mate her acquiescence. It was clear, however, 
that her fears were satisfied. She raised her 
eyes, and they rested on him for a moment with 
a grave and even melancholy gaze, in which — 
was there confidence ? That momentary, al- 
most unconscious glance was averted, but Cleve 
felt unaccountably happy and even proud. 

“ It is then understood,” said he, “ that I am 
not to charge myself with having caused, how- 
ever unintentionally, any disturbance or embar- 
rassment of your plans. Do you think — it 
would give me so much pleasure — that I might 
ventin’e to call upon Sir Booth Fanshawe, to 
make him in pei*son that offer of my humble 
services, in any way in which he might please to 
employ me, which I have already tendered to 
you ?” 

He saw the young lady turn an alarmed glance 
upon her companion, and press her hand slightly 
on her arm, and the old lady said quickly — 

“ Not for the world ! Nothing would vex him 
more. That is, I mean, it is better he should 
not think that he has been recognized ; he is im- 
petuous, and,^as you must know, a little fiery, 
and just now is suffering, and, in fact, I should 
not venture, although, I need not say, I quite ap- 
preciate the feeling, and thank you very much.” 

A silence followed this little speech. The 
subject that had engrossed and excited the little 
party was for the present exhausted, and no one 
was ready at the moment to start another. 

“ We have detained you here most unreason- 
ably, Mr. Yerney, I’m afraid,” said Miss Sheckle- 
ton, glancing toward the door. “The evenings 
have grown so short, and our boatmen said we 
should be longer returning ; and I think 'we 
should have been on our way home before now.” 

“ I only wish you would allow me to set you 
down at Malory in my boat, but I know that 
would not do, so you must allow me to see you 
on board your own.” 

More time had passed, a great deal, during 
this odd scene, than it takes to read my note of 
it. When they stepped forth from the door of 
the tenebrous little church, the mellow light of 
sunset was streaming along the broken pavement 
and grass, and glowing on the gray walls and 
ivy of the old building. 

Margaret Fanshawe was very silent all the 
way down to the little stone pier, at which the 
boat was moored. But the old lady had quite 
recovered her garrulous good spirits and energy. 


28 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


There was something likeable and even winning I 
in Miss Anne Sheckleton, sixty years though she 
looked. She did not hide her gray locks ; they i 
were parted smoothly over her intelligent fore- 
head, and in her clear, pleasant face you could 
see at times a little gleam of waggery, and some- 
times the tenderness of sentiment. So that 
there remained with her that inextinguishable 
youth of spirit that attracts to the last. 

Cleve was not one of those fellows who don’t 
understand even so much self-denial as is neces- 
sary to commend them to old ladies on occasion. 
He was wiser. He walked beside her slight 
figure and light firm step, talking agreeably, 
with now and then a stolen glance at the silent 
girl. Miss Sheckleton was an old woman such 
as I love. Such as remains young at three 
score, and is active still with youthful interests, 
and a vein of benevolent romance. 

And now they stood at the gunwale of the 
boat, and Miss Sheckleton, smiling a little 
anxiously, gave him her hand at parting. 

“ May I ?” said he, in a tone respectful and 
even melancholy, at the same time extending 
his hand with hesitation toward the young lady 
beside him. 

There was a little motion in her hand, ^s if 
she would have shut or withdrawn it, but she 
looked at him with grave eyes ; was there doubt 
in them, or was there confidence ? and gave him 
her hand too, with a sad look. There was one 
strong violent throb at his heart as he pressed 
that slender gauge ; and then it seemed to stand 
still for a moment; and he heard the evening 
breeze among the leaves, like a sigh along the 
shore. Was it an omen? 

The next moment he was standing alone, with 
his hat in his hand, smiling and waving an adieu 
over the glittering waves to the receding boat. 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN WHICH CLEVE VERNEY WAYLAYS AN OLD 
LADY. 

Cleve visited the old Priory next day, but 
there had been no one to look at it since. He 
took a walk in the Warren and killed some inno- 
cent rabbits, and returned an hour later. Still 
no one. He loitered about the ruins for some 
time longer, but nothing came of it. The next 
day in like manner he again inspected the Pri- 
ory, to the wonderment of Mrs. Hughes, who kept 
the keys, and his yacht was seen till sunset hover- 
ing about Penruthyn. He drove into the town 
also now and then, and looked in on the shop- 
keepers, and was friendly as usual ; and on these 
occasions always took a ramble either over the 
hill or by the old Malory road, in the direction 
of the dower house. 

But the Malory people seemed to have grown 
still more cautious and reserved since the adven- 
ture of Penruthyn Priory. Sunday came, and 
Miss Anne Sheckleton sat alone in the Malory 
pew. 


I Cleve, who had been early in his place, saw the 
old lady enter alone and the door shut, and ex- 
1 perienced a pang of disappointment — more than 
disappointment, it amounted to pain. 

If in the dim light of the Malory seat he had 
seen, once more, the Guido that haunted him, he 
could with pleasure have sat out three services, 
wdth three of the longest of good Mr. Splayfoot’s 
long sermons. But as it was, it dragged wofully 
— it made next to no way ; the shrilly school- 
children and the deep-toned Mr. Bray sang more 
verses than ever to the solemn drone of the organ, 
and old Splayfoot preached as though he’d preach 
his last. Even Cleve’s watch, which he peeped 
at with a frequency he grew ashamed of, limped 
and loitered over the minutes cruelly. 

The service would not have seemed so nearly 
interminable if Cleve had not resolved to way- 
lay and accost the lady at the other side — even 
at the risk of being snubbed for his pains ; and 
to him, full of this resolve, the interval was 
miserable. 

When the people stood up after the blessing, 
Cleve Verney had vanished. From the church- 
yard he had made his exit by the postern door 
from which he and his enamored friend Sedley 
had descended a week before to the narrow road, 
under the town wall, leading to Malory. 

Down this he walked listlessly till he reached 
that lonely part of the road which is overarched 
by trees ; and here, looking over the sloping fields 
toward the sea, as if at the distant mountains, 
he did actually waylay Miss Sheckleton. 

The old lady seemed a little flurried and shy, 
and would, he fancied, have gladly been rid of 
him. But that did not weigh much with Cleve, 
who, smiling and respectful, walked by her side 
after he had made his polite salutation. A few 
sentences having been first spoken about indiffer- 
ent things, Cleve said — 

“I’ve been to the old Priory twice since I met 
you there.” 

“ Oh!” said Miss Anne Sheckleton, looking 
uneasily toward Malory. He thought she was 
afraid that Sir Booth’s eye might chance to be 
observing them. 

Cleve did not care. He rather enjoyed her 
alarm, and the chance of bringing matters to a 
crisis. She had not considered him much in the 
increased jealousy with which she had cloistered 
up her beautiful recluse ever since that day which 
burned in his memory and cast a train of light 
along the darkness of the interval. Cleve would 
have been glad that the old man had discovered 
and attacked him. He thought ^he could have 
softened and even made him his friend. 

“ Do you never purpose visiting the ruin 
again ?” asked Cleve. “ I had hoped it inter- 
ested you and Miss Fanshawe too much to be 
dropped on so slight an acquaintance.” 

“ I don’t know. Our little expeditions have 
been Very few and very uncertain,” hesitated 
Miss Sheckleton. 

“Pray, don’t treat me quite as a stranger,” 
said Cleve in a low and earnest tone ; “ what I 
said the other day was not, I assure you, spoken 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


29 


upon a mere impulse. I hope, I am sure, that 
Miss Fanshawe gives me credit at least for sin- 
cerity.” 

He paused. 

“ Oh ! certainly, Mr. Verney, we do.” 

‘‘ And I so wish you would tell her that I have 
been ever since thinking how I can be of any real 
use — ever so little — if only to prove my anxiety 
to make her trust me even a little.” 

“ I think, Mr. Verney, it is quite enough if we 
don’t c//5trust you ; and I can assure you we do 
not,” said the spinster. 

“My uncle, though not the sort of man you 
may have been led to suppose him — not at all 
an unkind man — is, I must allow, a little odd and 
difficult sometimes — you see I’m not speaking to 
you as a stranger — and he won’t do things in a 
moment ; still if I knew exactly what Sir Booth 
expected from him — if you think I might ven- 
ture to ask an interview — ” 

“ Quite impossible! You must not think of 
it,” exclainied the lady with a look almost of ter- 
ror, “just now, while all is so fresh, and feelings 
so excited, he’s in no mood to be reasonable, and 
no good could come of it.” 

“Well, you know best, of course. But I ex- 
pect to be called away, my stay at Ware can’t be 
much longer. My uncle writes as if he wants 
me ; and I wish so much, short as it is, that I 
could improve it to any useful purpose. I can’t 
tell you how very much I pity Miss Fanshawe, 
immured in that gloomiest of all gloomy places. 
Such an unnatural and terrifying seclusion for 
one so very young.” 

“ It is certainly very triste,” said Miss Shec- 
kleton. . 

“ She draws, you told me, and likes tlie gar- 
den, and reads; you must allow me to lend you 
some books, won’t you ? you I say ; and you can 
lend them to her,” he added, seeing a hesitation, 

‘ ‘ and you need take no trouble about returning 
them. Just lock them up anywhere in the house 
when you’ve done with them, and I’ll get them 
when you leave Malory, which I hope won’t be 
for a long time, unless it be for a very much pleas- 
anter residence.” 

Here came a pause ; the eyes of the two pedes- 
trians were directed toward Malory as they de- 
scended the road, but no sign of life was visible 
in that quarter. 

“ You got home very well that day from the 
Priory ; I watched you all the way,” said he at 
last. 

“Oh! yes ; the distance is nothing.” 

Another little pause followed. 

“ YovUre not afraid. Miss Sheckleton, of ven- 
turing outside the walls. I fear, however, I’ve a 
great deal to answer for in having alarmed Miss 
Fanshawe, though quite unintentionally, for the 
safety of Sir Booth’s incognito. The secret is 
known to no one but to me and the persons origi- 
nally entrusted with it ; I swear to you it is so. 
There’s no reason on earth for your immuring 
yourselves as you do within those melancholy 
precincts ; it excites curiosity, on the contrary, 
and people begin to pry and ask questions ; and 


I trust you believe that I would not trifle or 
mislead you upon such a subject. 

“You are very good,” answered Miss Sheckle- 
ton, looking down. “ Yes, we are obliged to be 
very careful ; but it is hardly worth breaking a 
rule ; we may possibly be here for so very short 
a time, you know. And about the books — ” 

“Oh I about the books I’ll Iiear nothing ; 
there are books coming for me to Ware, and I 
shan’t be there to receive them. And I shall 
be, I assure you, ever so much obliged if you’ll 
only just give them house-room — they’ll be so 
much safer — at Malory ; and you won’t deny me 
the pleasure of thinking that you and Miss Fan- 
shawe will look over them.” 

He fancied she did not like this ; and thought 
she seemed embarrassed to find an evasion ; but 
before she could speak he continued — “And how 
is the little squirrel I saw in the boat the other 
day; Miss Fanshawe ’s, I suppose ? Suchapretty 
little thing !” 

“ Oh ! poor little Whisk. There has been a 
tragedy : some horrid thing, a wild cat or an owl, 
killed him the other night, and mangled him, so ; 
poor, little, dear thing ! you must not ask.” 

“ Oh dear ! I’m so sorry ; and Miss Fanshawe 
can so ill spare a companion just now.” 

“Yes, it has been a great blow; and — and I 
think, Mr. Verney, I should prefer bidding you 
good-bye Aere,” said Miss Sheckleton, stopping 
resolutely, and holding out her fingers for him 
to take; for she was on odd terms of suspicion 
and confidence — something more than mere 
chance acquaintance. 

He looked toward the wood of Malory — now 
overlooking them, almost in the foreground; 
and, I think, if he had seen Miss Fanshawe 
under its shadows, nothing would have pre- 
vented his going right on — perhaps very rashly 
— upon the chance of even a word from her. 
But the groves were empty ; neither ‘ ‘ Earl 
King” nor his daughter were waiting for the.^i. 
So, for simply nothing, it would not do to vex 
the old lady, with whom, for many reasons, it 
was desirable that he should continue upon good 
terms, and with real regret he did there, as she 
desired, take his leave, and slowly walk back to 
Cardy Ilian, now and then stealing a glance over 
the old side-walk of the steep road, thinking that 
just possibly his Guido might appear in the 
shadow to greet the old lady at the gate. But 
nothing appeared — she went in, and the dark- 
ness received her. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BOY WITH THE CAGE. 

At Ware a letter awaited Cleve from his 
uncle, the Hon. Kifiyn Fulke Verney. He read 
it after dinner, with his back to the fire, by a 
candle placed on the corner of the chimney- 
piece. He never was in any great haste to open 
his uncle’s letters, except when he expected a 
remittance. I must allow they were not enter- 


30 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


taining, and did not usually throw much light 
upon any thing. But it was not safe to omit a 
single line, for his uncle knew them by rote, and 
in their after meetings asked him questions upon 
some passages, and referred pointedly to others. 
Uncle Kiifyn was in fact thin-skinned in his 
vanities, and was a person with whom it would 
have been highly inconvenient to have been on 
any but the very best terms. 

Cleve had, therefore, to read these closely writ- 
ten dispatches with more attention than even his 
friend Dixie read his Bible. They were a sore 
trouble, for their length was at times incredible. 

As he read these letters, moans and even 
execrations escaped him, such as poets describe 
as issuing from the abode of torment — “ Good 
heavens! mightn’t he have said that in five 
words?” Then a “Pish!” — “Always grum- 
bling about that executorship. Why did he 
take it ? I do believe he likes it.” 

And then Cleve read — “I see no reason 
why, with respect to you, I may not exercise — 
as between ourselves, at least — an absolute un- 
reserve with relation to a fact of which, through 
a channel not necessary to particularize, I have 
just received an authentic assurance, to the 
effect, namely, that Sir Booth Eanshawe — whose 
ruin has been brought about partly by his vir- 
tual insanity in opposing me with an insensate 
pertinacity and an intense ill-feeling, on which I 
offer no observation, but involving an expense to 
which his impaired means were obviously inade- 
quate, and "partly by early follies, profligacies, 
and vices — is now living concealed in the Rue 
de — , in Paris.” Cleve laughed. “He is a 
person to whom neither courtesy nor forbearance, 
as it appears to me, can reasonably be held to 
be in any respect due from me. There has been 
a recent order — charging him, as you may have 
seen by the public papers, with £2,317 costs in 
the collateral suit connected with the trust cause, 
in which I was, though I by no means sought 
the position, the plaintiff — to foreclose the mort- 
gage over Wycroft. I have written to apprise 
Milbanke of the fact, that he may take such 
steps as the nature of the case may suggest.” 
“Well for Sir Booth he does not know he’s so 
near ! What’s this ? A postscript ! well” — 
“P.S. — I have opened my letter to introduce 
this postscript, in consequence of a letter which 
has just reached me in course of post from Mr. 
Jos. Larkin, a solicitor, who was introduced to 
my notice about two years since by a member 
of the Brandon family, and who is unquestiona- 
bly a man of some ability in his position in life. 
His letter is accompanied by a note from Messrs. 
Nun & JSamuels, and the two documents in- 
volve considerations so sudden, complicated and 
momentous, that I must defer opening them, 
and request your presence at Verney House on 
the loth proximo, when I mean to visit town for 
the purpose of arriving at a distinct solution of 
the several reports thus submitted upon a sub- 
ject intimately connected with my private feel- 
ings, and with the most momentous interests of 
my house.” 


So abruptly ended the postscript, and for 
moment Cleve was seriously alarmed. Could! 
those meddling fellows who had agents every-} ' 
where have fished up some bit of Cardyllianjl 
gossip about his Malory romance? 

He knew very well what the Hon. Kiffyn] 
Fulke Verney would think of that. His uncle 
could make or mar him. He knew that he had 
dangerous qualities, being a narrow man, with 
obstinate resentments. He was^ stunned for a 
moment; but then he reflected that all the ro- 
mance in which he was living had been purely 
psychologic and internal, and that there was no 
overt act to support the case which he might not 
confess and laugh at, 

“ On the loth proximo” — Very well ; on the 
15th he would be in town, and hear his uncle 
upon this subject involving his “private feel- 
ings” and “ the most momentous interests of 
his house.” Could it be that his outcast uncle, 
who had been dragging out a villainous exist- 
ence in Turkey, under the hospitable protection 
of the Porte — who was said to have killed the 
captain of a French man-of-war in that contem- 
plative retreat, and whom he was wont respect- 
fully to call “the Old Man of the Mountains,” 
was dead at last ? 

The postscript would bear this interpretation ; 
and a pompous liking for mystery, which was 
one of his uncle’s small weaknesses, would ac- 
count for his withholding the precise informa- 
tion, and nursing and making much of his 
secret, and delivering it at last, like a Cabinet 
manifesto or a Sessional address. 

“If the Old Man of the Mountains be really 
out of the way, it’s an important event for us!” 

And a dark smile lighted the young man’s 
face as he thought of the long train of splendid 
consequences that would awake at his death- 
bed and begin to march before his funeral. 

Ambition, they say, is the giant passion. 
But giants are placable and sleep at times. The 
spirit of emulation — the lust of distinction — 
Jiominum volitare per ora — dlgito monstrarier — in 
a wider and still widening sphere — until all the 
world knows something about you — and so on 
and on — the same selfish aspiration, and at best 
the same barren progress, till at last it has 
arrived, you are a thoroughly advertised and 
conspicuous mediocrity, still wishing, and often, 
tired, in the midst of drudgery and importance 
and ^clat^ and then — on a sudden, the other] 
thing comes — the first of the days of darkness! 
which are many. 

Thy house shall be of clay, 

A clot under thy head ; 

Until thd latter day 
The grave shall be thy bed. 

But nature has her flowers and her fruits, as 
well as those coarse grains and vegetables on 
which overgrown reputations are stall-fed. The 
Commons lobby, the division list, the bureau, 
Hansard, the newspapers, the dreary bombast of 
the Right Hon. Marcus Tullius Countinghouse, 
which fashion lauds, and no mortal ever reads ; 
the ironies of IMr. Swelter, so far behind the 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


31 


Scitire of the Times ; the jokes, so much below 
Punch, of Mr. Rasp, — enjoy these illusions while 
you may, now, in the days of thy youth, before 
your time comes, and care catches you, and you 
are drawn in and ground under the great old 
machine which has been thundering round and 
round, and bruising its proper grist, ever since 
Adam and Eve walked out of Eden. 

But besides all this delicious rape-cake and 
riiangold of politics, Cleve Verney had his tran- 
sient perceptions of the flowers and fruits, as we 
say, that spring elsewhere. There are fancy, 
the regrets, the yearnings — something recluse in 
the human soul, which will have its day, a day, 
though brief it may be, of entire domination. 

Now it came to pass, among the trees of lone- 
ly Malory, at eventide, when the golden air was 
flooded with the vesper songs of small birds, and 
the long gray shadows were stretching into dis- 
tance, that a little brown Welsh boy, with dark 
lively eyes, and a wire cage in his hand, sudden- 
ly stood before Miss Margaret Fanshawe, who 
awaking from a reverie, with a startled look — 
for intruders were there unknown — fixed her 
great eyes upon him. 

“You’ve climbed the wall, little gipsy,” said 
the beautiful lady, with a shake of her head 
and a little frown, raising her finger threatening- 
ly. “What! You say nothing ? This is a lonely 
place don’t you know ; there are ghosts here and 
fairies, in Malory ? And I’m one of them per- 
haps,” she continued, softening a little, for he 
looked at h6r with round eyes of wonder and 
awe. 

“And what do you want here? and what 
have you got in that cage ? Let me see it.” 

Breaking through an accidental cleft among 
the old trees, one sunset ray streamed on the 
face of this little Welsh Murillo; and now 
through the wires of the cage, gilding them 
pleasantly as he raised it in his hand, and show- 
ed two little squfrrels hopping merrily within. 

“ Squirrels ! How curious ! My poor little 
Whisk, there’s none like you, funny little 
Whisk, kind little Whisk, true little thing ; you 
loved your mistress, and no one else, no one 
else. He’s buried there, under that large rose- 
bush ; I won’t cry for you, little Whisk, any 
more ; I said I wouldn’t.” 

She looked wistfully toward the rose-bush, 
and the little head-stone she had girlishly placed 
at her favorite’s grave, and the little boy saw 
two great crystal tears glittering in her large 
eyes as she gazed ; and she turned and walked 
a hasty step or two toward it. I don’t know 
whether they fell or were dried, but when she 
came back she looked as at first. 

“ I’ll buy one of these little things, they are 
very pretty, and I’ll call it Frisk ; and I’ll please 
myself by thinking it’s little Whisk’s brother ; 
it may be, you know,” she said, unconsciously 
taking the little boy into the childish confidence. 
“ What would you sell one of those little things 
for? perhaps you would not like to part with 
it, but I’ll make it very happy, I shall be very 
kind to it.” 


She paused, but the little fellow only looked 
still silently and earnestly in her face. 

“Is he deaf or dumb, or a sprite — who are 
you?” said the girl, looking at him curi- 
ously. 

A short sentence in Welsh, prettiest of all 
pretty tongues, with its pleasant accent, was the 
reply. 

“Then all my fine sentences have been 
thrown away, and not one word has he under- 
stood !” 

Looking at his impenetrable face, and thus 
speaking, she smiled ; and in that sudden and 
beautiful radiance he smiled merrily also. 

All this happened under the trees close by 
the old Refectory wall, at the angle of which is 
a small door admitting into the stable-yard. 
Opening this, she called “ Thomas Jones !” and 
the Cardyllian “helper,” so called, answered the 
invocation quickly. 

“ Make out from that little boy what he is 
willing to take for one of his squirrels,” said 
she, and listened in suspense while the brief 
dialogue in Welsh proceeded. 

“ He says, my lady, he does not know, but 
will go home and ask ; and if you give him a 
shilling for earnest, he’ll leave the cage here. 
So you may look at them for some time, my 
lady — yes, sure, and see which you would find 
the best of the two.” 

“Oh, that’s charming!” said she, nodding 
and smiling her thanks to the urchin, who re- 
ceived the shilling and surrendered the cage, 
which she set down upon the grass in triumph ; 
and seating herself upon the turf before them, 
began to talk to the imprisoned squirrels with 
the irrepressible delight with which any com- 
panionable creature is welcomed by the young 
in the monotony and sadness of solitude. 

The sun went down, and the moon rose over 
Malory, but the little brown boy returned not. 
Perhaps his home was distant. But the next 
morning did not bring him back, nor the day, 
nor the evening ; and, in fact, she saw his face 
no more. 

“Poor little deserted squirrels! — two little 
foundlings ! — what am I to think ? Tell me. 
Cousin Anne, was that little boy what he seem- 
ed, or an imp that haunts these woods, and 
wants to entangle me by a bargain uncompleted ; 
or a compassionate spirit that came thus dis- 
guised to supply the loss of poor little Whisk ; 
and how and when do you think he will appear 
again ?” ^ 

She was lighting her bedroom candle in the 
faded old drawing-room of Malory, as, being 
about to part for the night, she thus addressed 
her gray Cousin Anne. That old spinster yawn- 
ed at her leisure, and then said — 

“ He’ll never appear again, dear.” 

“ I should really say, to judge by that speech, 
that you knew something about him,” said Mar- 
garet FanshaAve, replacing her candle on the 
table as she looked curiously in her face. 

The old lady smiled mysteriously. 

“ What is it ?” said the girl ; “ you must tell 


32 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


me — you shall tell me. Come, Cousin Anne, I 
don’t go to bed to-night till you tell me all you 
know.” 

The young lady had a will of her own, and 
sat down, it might be for the night, in her chair 
again. 

As to knowing, my dear, I really know noth- 
ing ; but I have my suspicions. 

“Il-m!” said Margaret, for a moment 
dropping her eyes to the table, so that only 
their long silken fringes were visible. Then she 
raised them once more gravely to her kinswom- 
an’s face. “Yes, I will know what you sus- 
pect.” 

“Well, I think that handsome young man, 
Mr. Cleve Verney, is at the bottom of the mys- 
tery,” said Miss Chatterton, with the same 
smile. 

Again the young lady dropped her eyes 
gravely, and was for a moment silent. Was 
she pleased or c^wpleased ? Proud and sad her 
face looked. 

“There’s no one here to tell him that I lost 
my poor little squirrel. It’s quite impossible — 
the most unlikely idea imaginable.” 

“ I told him on Sunday,” said Miss Sheckle- 
ton, smiling. 

“He had no business to talk about me.” 

“Why, dear, unless he was a positive brute, 
he could not avoid asking for you ; so I told 
him you were desole about your bereavement — 
your poor little Whisk, and he seemed so sorry 
and kind ; and I’m perfectly certain he got these 
little animals to supply its place.” 

“ And so has tricked me into taking a pres- 
ent?” said the young lady, a little fiercely — 
“ he would not have taken that liberty — ” 

“ Liberty, my dear ?” 

“Yes, liberty ; if he did not think that we 
were fallen, ruined people — ” 

“Now, my dear child, your father’s not ruin- 
ed, I maintain it ; there will be more left. I’m 
very certain, than he supposes; and I could 
have almost beaten you the other day for using 
that expression in speaking to Mr. Verney ; but 
you are so impetuous — and then, could any one 
have done a more thoughtful or a kinder thing, 
and in a more perfectly delicate way ? He 
hasn't made you a present ; he has only con- 
trived that a purchase should be thrown in 
your way, which of all others was exactly what 
you most wished ; he has not appeared, and 
never will appear in it ; and I know, for my 
part, I q,m very much obliged to him — if he has 
done it — and I think he admires you too much 
to run a risk of oifending you.” 

“ What ?” 

“ I do — I think he admires you.” 

The girl stood up again, and took her candle, 
but paused for a moment by the table, looking 
thoughtfully. Was she paler than usual? or 
w'as it only that the light of the candle in her 
hand was thrown upward on her features ? 
Then she said in a spoken meditation — 

“ There are dreams that have in them, I 
think, the germs of insanity; and the sooner 


we dissipate them, don’t you think, the better 
and the wiser ?” 

She smiled, nodded, and went away. 

Whose dreams did she mean? Cleve Ver- 
ney’s. Miss Sheckleton’s, or — could it be, her 
own? 


CHAPTER XIV. 

NEWS ABOUT THE HON. ARTHUR VERNEY. 

Next morning Margaret Fanshawe was un- 
usually silent at breakfast, except to her new 
friends the squirrels, whose cage she placed on a 
little table close by, and who had already begun 
to attach themselves to her. To them she talk- 
ed, as she gave them their nuts, a great deal of 
that silvery nonsense which is pleasant to hear 
as any other pleasant sound in nature. But good 
old Miss Sheckleton thought her out of spirits. 

“ She’s vexing herself about my conjectures,” 
thought the old ladj. “I am sorry I said a 
word about it. I believe I was a fool, but shds 
a greater one. She’s young, however, and has 
that excuse.” 

“ How old are you, Margaret ?” said she ab- 
ruptly, after a long silence. 

“Twenty-two, my last birthday,” answered 
the young lady, and looked, as if expecting a 
reason for the question. 

“Yes ; so I thought,” said Miss Sheckleton. 
“The twenty-third of June — a midsummer 
birthday — your poor mamma used to say — the 
glow and flowers of summer — a brilliant au- 
gury.” 

“Brilliantly accomplished,” added the girl; 
“ don’t you think so. Frisk, and you, little Com- 
et ? Are you not tired of Malory already, my 
friends ? My cage is bigger, but so am I, don’t 
you see ; you’d be happier climbing and hop- 
ping among the boughs. What am I to you 
compared with liberty ? I di(f not ask for you, 
little fools, did I ? You came to me ; and I will 
open the door of your cage some day, and give 
you back to the unknown — to chance — from 
which you came.” 

“You’re sad to-day, my child,” said Miss 
Sheckleton, laying her hand gently on her should- 
er. “Are you vexed at what I said to you 
last night ?” 

“What did you say ?” 

“ About these little things — the squirrels.” 

‘ ‘ No, darling, I don’t care. Why should I ? 
They come from Fortune, and that little brown 
boy. They came no more to me than to youf 
said the girl carelessly. “Yes, another nut; 
you shall, you little wonders !” 

“Now, that s just what I was going to say. I 
might just as well have bought them as you ; 
and I must confess I colored my guess a little, 
for I only mentioned poor Whisk in passing, 
and I really don’t know that he heard me ; and 
I think if he had thought of getting a squirrel 
for us, he’d have asked leave to send it to me. I 
could not have objected to that, you know ; and 
that little boy may be ill, you know ; or some^ 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


S3 


thing may have happened to delay him, and he’ll 
turn up ; and you’ll have to make a bargain, 
and pay a fair price for them yet.” 

“Yes, of course ; I never thought any thing 
else — eventually ; and I knew all along you 
were jesting. I told these little creatures so this 
morning, over and over again. If they could 
speak they would say so. Would not you, you 
two dear little witches ?” 

So she carried out her pets with her, and 
hung their cage among the boughs of the tree 
that stood by the rustic seat to which she used 
to take her book. 

“ AYell, I’ve relieved her mind,” thought Miss 
Sheckleton. 

But, oddly enough, she found the young lady 
not sad, but rather cross and fierce all that aft- 
ernoon — talking more bitterly than ever to her 
squirrels, about Malory, and with an angry kind 
of gayety, of her approaching exile to France. 

“ It is not always easy to know how to please 
young ladies,” thought Miss Skeckleton. “ They 
won’t always take the trouble to know their own 
minds. Poor thing ! It is very lonely — very 
tiresome, to be sure ; — and this little temper 
will blow over.” 

So, full of these thoughts. Miss Sheckleton re- 
paired to that mysterious study door within 
w’hich Sir Booth, dangerous as a caged beast, 
paced his floor, and stormed and ground his 
teeth, over — not his own vices, prodigalities, 
and madness, but the fancied villainies of man- 
kind — glared through his window in his parox- 
ysms, and sent his curses like muttered thunder 
across the sea over the head of old Pandillion 
— and then would subside, and write long, ram- 
bling, rubbishy letters to his attorneys in Lon- 
don, wdiich it was Miss Sheckleton’s business to 
enclose and direct, in her feminine hand, to her 
old friend, Miss Ogden, of Bolton Street, Pic- 
cadilly, -who saw after the due delivery of these 
missives, and made herself generally useful 
during the mystery and crisis of the Fanshawe 
affairs. 

Outside the sombre precincts of Malory Mar- 
garet Fanshawe would not go. Old Miss 
Sheckleton had urged her. Perhaps it was a 
girlish perversity ; perhaps she really disliked 
the idea of again meeting or making an ac- 
quaintance. At all events, she was against any 
more excursions. Thus the days were dull at 
Malory, arid even Miss Sh'eckleton was weary of 
her imprisonment. \ 

It is a nice thing to hit th$' exact point of re- 
serve and difficulty at which an interest of a 
certain sort is piqued, without danger of being 
killed. Perhaps it is seldom compassed by art, 
and a fluke generally does it. I am absolutely 
certain that there was no design here. But there 
is a spirit of contrariety — a product of pride, of 
a sensitiveness almost morbid, of a reserve 
gliding into duplicity, a duplicity without cal- 
culation — which yet operates like design. Cleve 
was piqued — Cleve was angry. The spirit of 
the chase was roused, as often as he looked at 
the dusky woods of Malory. 

C 


And now he had walked on three successive 
days past the old gateway, and on each of them 
loitered long on that wind-beaten hill that over- 
looks the grounds of Malory. But in vain. He 
was no more accustomed to wait than Louis 
XIV. No wonder he grew impatient, and med- 
itated the wildest schemes — even that of walk- 
ing up to the hall door, and asking to see Sir 
Booth and Miss Sheckleton, and, if need be. 
Miss Fanshawe. He only knew that,* one way 
or another, he must see her. He was a young 
man of exorbitant impatience, and a violent 
will, and would control events. 

There are consequences, of course, and these 
subjugators are controlled in their turn. Time, 
as mechanical science shows us, is an element in 
power ; and patience is in durability. God waits, 
and God is might. And without patience we en- 
ter not into the kingdom of God, which is the 
kingdom of power, and the kingdom of eternity. 

Cleve Verney’s romance next morning was 
doomed to a prosaic interruption. He was ex- 
amining a chart of the Cardyllian estuary, 
which hangs in the library, trying to account 
for the boat’s having touched the bank at low 
water, at a point wdiere he fancied there was 
a fathom to spare, wFen the rustic servant enter- 
ed with — 

“ Please, sir, a gentleman which his name is 
Mr. Larkin, is at the door, and wishes to see 
you, sir, on partickler business, please.” 

“Just wait a moment, Edward. Three flith- 
om — two— four feet — by Jove ! So it is. We 
might have been aground for five hours ; a 
shame there isn’t a buoy there — got off in a 
coach, by Jove. Larkin ? Has he no card ?” 

“Yes, sir, please*” 

“Oh! yes — very good. Mr. Larkin — The 
Lodge. Does he look like a gatekeeper ?” 

“No, sir, please; quite the gentleman.” 

“What the devil can he want of me? Are 
you certain he did not ask for my uncle ?” 

“Yes, sir — the Honorable Mr. Verney — 
which I told him he wasn’t here.” 

“ And wdiy did not you send him away, then ?” 

“ He asked if you were here, and wished to see 
you partickler, sir.” 

“ Larkin — The Lodge ; what is he like — tall 
or short — old or young ?” asked Cleve. 

“Tall gentleman, please, sir — not young — 
helderly, sir, rayther.” 

“By Jove! Larkin? I think it is. — Is he 
bald — a long face, eh ?” asked Cleve with sud- 
den interest. 

“Yes, sir, a good deal in that w’ay, sir — 
rayther. ” 

“Show him in,” said Cleve; “I shall hear 
all about it now,” he soliloquized as the man de- 
parted. “ Yes, the luckiest thing in the w^orld ?” 

The tall attorney, with the tall bald forehead 
and pink eyelids, entered simpering, with hol- 
low jaws, and a stride that was meant to be per- 
fectly easy and gentlemanlike. Mr. Larkin had 
framed his costume upon something he had once 
seen upon somebody whom he secretly w’orship- 
, ed as a great authority in quiet elegance. But 


3 ^ 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


every article in the attorney’s wardrobe looked 
always new — a sort of lavender was his favorite 
tint — a lavender waistcoat, lavender trowsers, 
lavender gloves — so that, as tlie tall lank figure 
came in, a sort of blooming and vernal effect, 
in spite of his open black frock-coat, seemed to 
enter and freshen the chamber. 

‘‘How d’ye do, Mr. Larkin? My uncle is 
at present in France. Sit down, pray — can I 
be of any use ?’’ said Cleve, who now recollected 
his appearance perfectly, and did not like it. 

The attorney, smiling engagingly, more and 
more, and placing a very smooth new hat upon 
the table, sat himself down, crossing one long 
leg over the other, throwing himself languidly 
back, and letting one of his long arms swing 
over the back of his chair, so that his fingers al- 
most touched the floor, said — 

“ Oh?” in a prolonged tone of mild surprise. 
“They quite misinformed me in town — not at 
Verney House — I did not allow myself time to 
call there ; but my agents, they assured me that 
your uncle, the Honorable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, 
was at present down here at Ware, and a most 
exquisite retreat it certainly is. My occupa- 
tions, and I may say my habits, call me a good 
deal among the residences of our aristocracy,” 
he continued, with a careless grandeur and a 
slight wave of his hand, throwing himself a little 
more back, “and I have seen nothing, I assure 
you, Mr. Verney, more luxurious and architect- 
ural than this patrician house of Ware, with its 
tasteful colonnade, and pilastered front, and the 
distant view of the fashionable watering-place of 
Cardy Ilian, which also belongs to the family ; 
nothing certainly lends a more dignified charm 
to the scene, Mr. Verney, than a distant view of 
family property, where, as in this instance, it is 
palpably accidental — where it is at all forced, as 
in the otherwise highly magnificent seat of my 
friend Sir Thomas Omnibull, baronet, so far 
from elevating, it pains one, it hurts one’s taste” 
— and Mr. Jos. Larkin shrugged and winced a 
little, and shook his head — “ Do you know Sir 
Thomas? — no — I dare say — he’s quite a new 
man. Sir Thomas — we all look on him in that 
light in our part of the world — a — in fact, a 
parvenu^"" which word Mr. Larkin pronounced 
as if it were spelled pair vennew. “But, you 
know, the British Constitution, every man may 
go up — we can’t help it — we can’t keep them 
down. Money is power, Mr. Verney, as the 
Earl of Coachhouse once said to me — and so it 
is ; and when they make a lot of it, they come 
up, and we must only receive them, and make 
the best of them.” 

“ Have you had breakfast, Mr. Larkin?” in- 
quired Cleve, in answer to all this. 

“Thanks, yes — at Llewinan — a very sweet 
spot — one of the sweetest, I should say, in this 
beauteous country.” 

“I don’t know — I dare say — I think you 
wished to see me on business, Mr. Larkin ?” 
said Cleve. 

“I must say, Mr. Verney, you will permit 
me, that I really have been taken a little by sur- 


prise. I had expected confidently to find 
your uncle, the Honorable Kiffyn Fulke Ver- 
ney, here, where I had certainly no hope of 
having the honor of finding you.” 

I must here interpolate the fact that no per- 
son in or out of England was more exactly ap- 
prised of the whereabout of the Verneys, uncle 
and nephew, at the moment wdien he determined 
to visit Ware, with the ostensible object of see- 
ing the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke, and the real one of 
seeing Mr. Cleve, than was my friend Mr. Lar- 
kin. He was, however, as we know, a gentle- 
man of ingenious morals and labyrinthine tastes. 
With Truth he was, as it were, on bowing terms, 
and invariably spoke of her with respect, but that 
was all. There was no intimacy, she was an ut- 
terly impracticable adviser, and Mr. Larkin had 
grown up under a more convenient tuition. 

“The information, however, I feel concerns 
you, my dear sir, as nearly, in a manner, a^ it 
does your uncle ; in fact, your youth taken into 
account, more momentously than it can so old 
a gentleman. I would therefore merely venture 
to solicit one condition, and that is, that you 
will be so good as not to mention me to your 
uncle as having conveyed this information to 
you, as he might himself have wished to be the 
first person to open it, and my having done so 
might possibly induce in his mind an unpleasant 
feeling.” 

“I shan’t see my uncle before the fifteenth,” 
said Cleve Verney. 

“A long wait, Mr. Verney, for such intelli- 
gence as it falls to my lot to communicate, 
which, in short, I shall be most happy to lay 
before you, provided you will be so good as to 
say you desire it on the condition I feel it due 
to all parties to suggest.” 

“You mean that my uncle need not be told 
any thing about this interview. I don’t see that 
he neec/, if it concerns me. What concerns Idm^ 
I suppose you will tell him, Mr. Larkin.” 

“ Quite so that’s quite my meaning ; merely 
to avoid unpleasant feeling. I am most anx- 
ious to acquaint you — but you understand the 
delicacy of my position with your uncle — and 
that premised, I have now to inform you” — here 
he dropped his voice, and raised his hand a little, 
like a good man impressing a sublime religious 
fact — “ that your uncle, the Honorable Arthur 
Verney, is no more.” 

The young man flushed up to the very roots 
of his hair. There was a little pink flush, also, 
on the attorney’s long cheeks ; for there was 
something exciting in even making such an an- 
nouncement. The consequences were so un- 
speakably magnificent. 

Mr. Larkin saw a vision of permanent, con- 
fidential, and lucrative relations with the rich 
Verney family, such as warmed the cool tide of 
his blood, and made him feel for the moment at 
I peace with all mankind. Cleve was looking 
I in the attorney’s eyes — the attorney in his. 
There was a silence for while you might count 
three or four. Mr. Larkin saw that his intended 
client, Cleve — the future Viscount Verney — was 


THE TENANTS OF ]\LVLORY. 


dazzled, and a little confounded. Eecollecting 
himself, he turned his shrewd gaze on the mar- 
ble face of Plato, who stood on his pedestal near 
the window, and a smile seraphic and melan- 
choly lighted up the features and the sad pink 
eyes of the godly attorney. He raised them ; 
he raised his great hand in the lavender glove, 
and shook his long head devoutly. 

“Mysterious are the dealings of Providence, 
Mr. Verney ; happy those who read the lesson, 
sir. How few of us so favored! wonderful arc 
His ways I ” 

With a little effort, and an affectation of 
serenity, Cleve spoke — 

“No very great wonder, however, considering 
he was sixty-four in May last.” The young 
man knew his vagabond Uncle Arthur’s age to 
an hour, and nobody can blame him much for 
his attention to those figures. “ It might not 
have happened, of course, for ten or twelve years, 
but it might have occurred, I suppose, at any 
moment. How did it happen ? Do you know 
the particulars ? But, is there — is there no (he 
was ashamed to say hope) no chance that he 
may still be living ? — is it quite certain ?” 

“ Perfectly certain, 'perfectly. In a family 
matter, I have always made it a rule to he cer- 
tain before speaking. No trifling with sacred 
feelings, that has been my rule, Mr. Verney, 
and although in this case there are. mitigations 
as respects the survivors, considering the life of 
privation and solitude, and, as I have reason to 
know, of ceaseless self-abasement and remorse, 
which was all that remained to your unhappy 
relative, the Honorable Arthur Verney, it was 
hardly to be desired that the event should be 
very much longer deferred.” 

Cleve Verney looked for a moment on the 
table, in the passing contagion of the good at- 
torney’s high moral tone. 

Cleve just said in a low tone, and 

shook his head. But rallying, he remarked — 

“ You, of course, know how the title is af- 
fected by this event — and the estates ?” And 
as he raised his eyes he encountered the attor- 
ney’s fixed upon him with that peculiar rat-like 
vigilance, concentrated and dangerous, which, 
as w’C know, those meek orbs sometimes assumed 
when his own interests and objects were intensely 
present to his mind. 

Cleve’s eye shrank for a second under the 
enigmatic scrutiny which as instantly gave way, 
in turn, before his glance. 

“ Oh, certainly,” said the attorney, “ the pub- 
lic know always something of great houses, and 
their position ; that is, generally., of course— de- 
tails are quite another affair. But every one 
knows the truly magnificent position, Mr. Ver- 
ney, in which the event places your uncle, and 
I may say you. At the same time the House 
of Lords, your house, I may call it now, are, 
very properly, particular in the matter of evi- 
dence.” 

“Our consul, I suppose,” said Cleve — ” 

“ If he were cognizant of all the points neces- 
sary to put in proof, the case would be a very 


simple one indeed,” said Mr. Larkin, with a sad 
smile, slowly shaking his tall head. 

“ Where, Mr. Larkin, did my poor uncle 
die ?” inquired Cleve, with a little effort at the 
word “uncle.” 

“ In Constantinople, sir — a very obscure quar- 
ter. His habits, Mr. Verney, were very strange ; 
he lived like a rat — I should say a rabbit in a 
burrow. Darkness, sir, obscurity — known, I be- 
lieve, personally to but two individuals. Strange 
fate, Mr. Verney, for one born to so brilliant an 
inheritance. Known to but two individuals, 
one of whom -died — what a thing life is! — but a 
few months before him, leaving, I may say, but 
one reliable witness to depose to his death ; and, 
for certain reasons, that witness is most reluc- 
tant to leave Constantinople, and jiot very easi- 
ly to be discovered, even there. You see, Mr. 
Verney, now, probably, something of the diffi- 
culty of the case. Fortunately, I have got some 
valuable information, confidential, I may say, in 
its nature, and with the aid of a few valuable 
local agents, providentially at this moment at 
my disposal, I think the difficulty may be quite 
overcome.” 

“If old Arthur Verney is dead. I'll find proof 
of the fact,” said Cleve ; “I’ll send out people 
who will know how to come at it.” 

“You must be well advised, and very cau- 
tious, Mr. Verney — in fact, I may tell you, you 
can’t be too cautious — for I happen to know 
that a certain low firm are already tampering 
with the witness.” 

“ And how the devil can it concern any firm 
to keep us — my Uncle Kiffyn Verney out of his 
rights?” said Mr. Cleve Verney, scornfully. 

“ Very true, Mr. Verney, in one sense, no mo- 
tive ; but I am older in the sad experience of 
the world than you, Mr. Verney. At your age 
I could not believe it, much later I would not. 
But, ah ! Mr. Verney, in the long run the facts 
are too strong for us. Poor, miserable, fallen 
human nature, it is capable of any thing. It is 
only too true, and too horrible. It sticks at 
nothing., my dear Mr. Verney, and their object is 
to command the witness by this means, and to 
dictate terms to you — in fact, my dear Mr. Ver- 
ney, it is shocking to think of it — to extort 
money.'' 

“ I hope you over-estimate the difficulty. If 
the death has occurred, I wager my life we’ll 
prove it, and come w'hat will, I hope my uncle 
will never be persuaded to give those scoundrels 
a shilling.” 

“Certainly not — not a shilling — not a far- 
thing — but I have taken prompt, and I trust de- 
cisive steps to checkmate those gentlemen. I 
am not at liberty, just at present, to disclose all 
I know ; I don’t say that I could exactly under- 
take the management of the case, but I shall be 
very happy to volunteer all the assistance in my 
power; and as I say, some accidental circum- 
stances place me in a position to undertake that 
you shall not be defeated. A break-down, I may 
mention, would be a more serious matter than 
you seem to suppose ; in fact, I should prefer 


36 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


the Honorable Arthur Verney’s living for twelve 
years more, with clear proof of his death at the 
end of that time, than matters as they stand at 
present, with a failure of the necessary proof.” 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Larkin; my 
uncle, I am sure, will also be very much obliged. 
I understand, of course, the sort of difficulty you 
apprehend.” 

“It is not conjectural, Mr. Verney, I wish it 
were — but it’s past that ; it exists,’^ said the at- 
torney sadly. 

“Well, I can only say we are very much 
obliged,” said Cleve, quite honestly. “ I shan’t 
forget your wish, that I should not mention our 
conversation to my uncle, and if you should 
learn any thing farther — ”, 

“ You shall certainly hear it, Mr. Verney. I 
must now take my leave. Sweet day, and a 
beauteous country! How blest you are, Mr. 
Verney, in your situation! I allude to your 
scenery, and I may add, the architectural mag- 
nificence of this princely residence. What a row 
of windows as I approached the house ! What 
a number of bedrooms you must have ! Hard- 
ly so many, let us hope, as there are mansions, 
Mr. Verney, in that house to which we humbly 
trust we are proceeding.” Mr. Larkin, who on 
his w'ay had called professionally upon a sub- 
scriber to the Gylingden Chapel — an “eminent 
Christian” — and talked accordingly — perceived 
that his meat was a little too strong for a babe 
of Mr. Verney’s standing, and concluded more 
like an attorney of this world. 

“ Splendid and convenient residence, and in 
all respects suitable, Mr. Verney, to the fine po- 
sition of usefulness and, I may say, splendor, 
to which you are about being called,” and he 
smiled round upon the bookcases and furniture, 
and waved his hand gently, as if in the act of 
diffusing a benediction. 

“ Won’t you take something, Mr. Larkin, be- 
fore y^ou go ?” asked Cleve. 

“No — thanks — no, Mr. Verney, many thanks. 
It is but an hour since I had my modest dejeuner 
at that sweet little inn at Llewinan.” 

So on the door-steps they parted ; the attor- 
ney smiling quite celestially, and feeling all 
aglow with affability, virtue, and a general 
sense of acceptance. In fact he was pleased 
with his morning’s work for several reasons — 
pleased with himself, with Cleve Verney, and 
confident of gliding into the management of the 
Verney estates, and in great measure of the 
Verneys themselves; now seeing before him, in 
the great and cloudy^ vista of his future, a new 
and gorgeous castle in the air. These chateaux 
in the good man’s horizon had, of late, been 
multiplying rapidly, and there was now quite a 
little city of palaces in his perspective — an airy 
pageant which, I think, he sometimes mistook 
for the New Jerusalem, he talked and smiled so 
celestially when it 'was in view. 


CHAPTER XV. 

WITHIN THE SANCTUARY. 

“ So the old man of the mountains is dead at 
last,” thought Cleve. “Poor old sinner — what 
a mess he made of it — Uncle Arthur ! Pine 
cards, uncle, ill played, sir. I wonder what it 
all was. To judge by the result, he must have 
been a precious fool. Of what sort -was your 
folly, I wonder — weak brains, or violent will. 
They say he was clever,— a little bit mad, I dare 
say; an idea ran away with him, whip and 
spurs, but no bridle — not unlike me, I some- 
times think, headstrong — headlong — but I’ll 
never run in your track, though I may break my 
neck yet. And so this Viscount Verney, dejure 
— outcast and renegade, de facto — has died in 
one of those squalid lanes of Constantinople, 
and lies among poor Asiatics, in a Turkish cem- 
etery! This was the meaning of my Uncle 
Kiffyn’s letter — never was mortal in such a fuss 
and flurry about any thing, as he is at this mo- 
ment; and yet he must practice his affectation 
of indifference, and his airs of superiority^ — what 
a fool my Uncle Kiffyn is !” 

Cleve walked back to the study. Things 
looked changed, somehow. He had never per- 
ceived before how old and dingy the furniture 
was, and how shabby the paint and gilding had 
grown. 

“This house must be made habitable, one of 
the first things,” said he, and we must take our 
right place in the county. The Hammerdons 
have been every thing here. It must not be 
so.” 

Cleve went to the window and looked out. 
The timber of Ware is old and magnificent. 
The view of Malory^ and Cardyllian and all that 
Verney sea-board does make an imposing dis- 
play across the water. The auctioneering slang 
of the attorney had under its glare and vulgar- 
ity a pleasant foundation of truth, and as the 
young man viewed this landscape the sun seem- 
ed to brighten over it, and he smiled with a new 
and solemn joy swelling at his heart. 

“ I hope that attorney fellow, Larkin, will go 
on and work this thing properly. It would be 
too bad that any delay should occur for want of 
proof — another name for Avant of energy — after 
the unfortunate old fellow has actually died.” 

Mr. Larkin’s card was upon the table, and 
-with the providence which in all small matters 
distinguished him, he had written under “The 
Lodge” his post-town, “ Gylingden.” So Cleve 
Verney wrote forthwith to tell him that although 
he had no authority to direct inquiries in the 
matter, and that his uncle would, of course, un- 
dertake that, he was yet so strongly of opinion 
that no time should be wasted, and that Mr. Lar- 
kin’s seTvices might be of the greatest possible 
value, that he could not forbear writing to say 
so ; and also that he would take the first oppor- 
tunity of pressing that view upon his uncle. So 
the letter found the good attorney that evening 
at “ The Lodge.” He needed no such spur. 
He was, in fact, very deep in the business al- 


THE TENANTS OF MALORT. 


37 


ready, and, with his own objects in vie^, was 
perhaps quite as much excited as either Cleve 
Verney or his uncle. 

When Cleve had dispatched this note, the 
restlessness and fever of this new and great 
suspense were upon him. It was impossible 
to sit down and read his magazines and news- 
papers. Had he been a fisherman, he might 
have taken his rod and fly-book, and becalmed 
his excited spirit in that mysterious absorption. 
But he had never possessed patience for the 
gentle craft. It ought to be cultivated early 
for its metaphysical virtues — neither transient 
like music nor poisonous like opium. For a 
harassed or excited mind, priceless is the re- 
source of being able to project itself into the 
condition of the otter or the crane, and think of 
nothing but fish. 

Two sedatives, however, were at his disposal 
'—cigars and the sea — and to them he betook 
himself. Away went the Wave over the spark- 
ing sea, with a light breeze, toivard the purple 
dome of Pendillion, streaked with dull yellow 
rock and towering softly in the distance. De- 
lightful sea-breeze, fragrant cigars, and gently- 
rising, misty woods of Malory with their roman- 
tic interest — and all seen under the glory of this 
great news from the East. The cutter seemed 
to dance and writhe along the waves in elation 
and delight, and the spray flew up like showers 
of brilliants from the hands of friendly Undines 
sporting round her bows. Trance-like it seemed, 
all musical and dreamy ; and Cleve felt, for the 
hour, he could have lived and died in that luxu- 
rious fascination. 

Away for Pendillion ran the cutter. He did 
not choose idle tongues in Cardyllian to prate 
of his hovering about Malory. He knew his 
yacht would be seen from the pier. Active 
Captain Shrapnell frequented it, and would 
forthwith report her course in the billiard and 
reading-rooms, with such conjectures as might 
strike his ingenious mind. So the cutter should 
run for that remote headland for nearly an hour, 
and then with a change of tack for Penruthyn 
Priory, which was hidden from Cardyllian eyes 
by intervening promontories j and not one of 
the wiseacres could tell or guess where he had 
been. 

When the sail of the yacht had grown like a 
gray speck in the distance, she was put about, 
and at a sharp angle ran to the rude pier of 
Penruthyn Priory, whence taking his gun as if 
for a ramble in the Warren, he told his men to 
expect him in about two hours, at the turn of 
the tide. 

Across the Warren there is a wild pathway 
which leads toward Malory, coming out upon the 
old road close by Llanderris church-yard, and 
within a few minutes’ walk of the wooded grounds 
of the ancient dower house of the Verney s. 

Approached from this point, there is a pecul- 
iar melancholy in the old wood. The quiet 
little church of Llanderris, and the grave-yard 
with its old yew-tree, and the curve of the nar- 
row road overhung by ivy-mantled ash-trees 


form the foreground, as you approach the wild- 
est side of the woodlands, which lie at the foot 
of the gentle descent. 

The little by-road making a sweep skirts the 
rear of the Malory grounds. Here the great 
hawthorn hedges have, time out of mind, been 
neglected, and have grown gigantic and utterly 
irregular, stooping from the grassy bank like iso- 
lated trees, and leaving wide gaps through which 
you may see the darkened sward, the roots and 
stems of the forest trees within, and the vistas 
that break dimly into the distance. 

Hours had passed since the Wave had left the 
jetty of Ware, and the autumnal sun was already 
declining in the early evening. There is no 
hour and no light, not even night and moon- 
light, so favorable to a certain pensive and half 
saddened view of fancy, as that at which the day 
gives signs of approaching farewell, and gilds 
the landscape with a funereal splendor. 

When Cleve reached the old road that de- 
scends by the church-yard, and through its dou 
ble hedge-rows looked down upon the enchanted 
grounds of Malory, he slackened his pace, and 
fell into a sort of reverie and rapture. 

There are few of the impostures we commit 
more amusing than that which we habitually 
practice upon ourselves in assigning the highest 
moral motives for doing what pleases us best. 

‘‘ If my Uncle Arthur had married some one 
whom he really loved, how differently all might 
have gone with him ! Here am I, with more 
money ultimately awaiting me than I shall really 
care to spend. One thousand pounds with me 
will do more than two thousand with most other 
men. I don’t play. I’m not on the turf. Why 
should I sacrifice my chance of happiness for 
the sake of a little more money, which I really 
don’t want, or for the sake of party connection ? 
If I can’t make my way without the aid of a 
wife. I’m not fit for politics, and the sooner I 
turn to something else the better. Every man 
ought to consult his affections, and to make his 
home the centre of them. Where is the good 
of fortune, and money, and all that, if it does not 
enable one to do so ? How can you love your 
children if you don’t love their mother — if you 
hate her, by Jove — as I know fellows that do. 
Settlements, and' political influence — all very 
fine — and we expect happiness to come of itself, 
when we have sold our last chance of it.” 

In this vein was Cleve Verney’s contemplation 
— and even more virtuous and unworldly as he 
proceeded — in the elation of his new sense of 
omnipotence and glory. Had he been a little 
franker with himself, he might have condensed 
it thus — “A fancy has taken possession of me, 
and I don’t choose to deny myself” 

Troubling his visions, however, was the image 
of his uncle, and the distant sound of his cold 
uncomfortable voice, and a sense of severity, 
selfishness and danger, under his feeble smile. 
Against this teasing phantom with its solemn 
prattle, however, he closed his eyes and shook 
his ears. He had never enjoyed a sail or a walk 
so in all his life. Was nature ever so glorious 


38 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


before, or romance so noble and tender? What 
a pensive glow and glory was over every thing ! 
He walked down the steep little curve of the old 
road, and found himself on the path that follows 
the low bank and thorn-trees which fence in the 
woods of Malory. 

Walking slowly, and now and then pausing, 
lie looked among the trunks and down the open- 
ing aisles of the wood. But there was no sign 
of life. The weeds nodded in the shadow, and 
now and then a brown leaf fell. It was like the 
wood of the ‘‘ Sleeping Beauty.” The dusky 
sun-light touched it drowsily, and all the air was 
silent and slumberous. 

The path makes a turn round a tliick clump 
of trees, and, as he passed this, on a sudden he 
saw tlie beautiful young lady standing near the 
bank, her hat thrown on the ground, the thick 
folds of her chestnut hair all golden in the misty 
sunlight. Never so like the Guido before. The 
large eyes, the delicate, oval, and pearly tints, 
and the small vermillion mouth, its full lips part- 
ed, he could see the sunlight glitter on the edge 
of the little teeth within. 

A thrill — a kind of shiver — passed through 
him, as if at sight of a beautiful spectre. She 
saw him stop, and in the momentary silence he 
thought — was it fancy ? — he saw a blush just 
tinge her cheeks. On the bank, glimmering in, 
the sun-light, w^as the cage with the little squir- 
rels hopping inside. 

‘•What a sweet evening!” said he. “I’ve 
been down to Penruthyn Priory — I’ve growm so 
fond of that old place. I used not to care about 
it , but — but one changes — and now it seems to 
me the most interesting place in the world, ex- 
cept, perhaps, one. You tired of it very quickly, 
Miss Fanshawe. You have not lialf seen it, you 
know. Why don’t you come and see it again ?” 

“I suppose Ave ouglit to,” said the young lady, 
“ and I dare say w’e shall.” 

“ Then do to-morrow, pray,” said he. 

She laughed, and said — 

“An excursion like that must always depend 
on the whim of the moment, don’t you think, to 
be the least pleasant ? It loses its charm the 
moment it loses the air of perfect liberty and 
caprice; and I don’t know whether we shall 
ever see the old Priory again.” . 

“I’m very sorry,” said Cleve. There was 
Jionest disappointment in his tone, and his dark 
soft eyes looked full in hers. 

She laughed again a little, and looking at the 
pretty old Church of Llanderris, that stands 
among nodding ash-trees on the near upland, 
she said — 

“ That old church is, I think , quite beautiful. 
I was exploring these woods with my little squir- 
rels here, when I suddenly came upon this view, 
and here I have stood for nearly ten minutes.” 

“ I’m very much obliged, I know, to Llander- 
ris Church, and I’m glad you admire it, for I like 
it very much myself,” said Cleve. “ And so you 
liave got two squirrels. I was so sorry to hear 
last Sunday that you had lost your little pet. 
Whisk. Wasn’t that his name?” 


“Yes. Poor little Whisk!” 

“ And you’re not going to leave Malory ?” 

“Not immediately, I believe,” said Miss Fan- 
shaw’e. 

“ That makes me very happy for three reasons. 
First, it proves that you have some confidence, 
after all, in me ; and next, because it shows that 
you arc not so troubled here as you feared you 
might be ; and the third reason— perhaps you 
shall never know until, at least, you can guess it.” 

‘ ‘ Yes ; papa is not talking of leaving immedi- 
ately, and I’m glad of it, for I know it was im- 
portant that he should be able for a little time 
longer to remain in England. And now I think 
my little squirrels want their nuts, and I must 
go.” 

“Poor little prisoners! You’re all prisoners 
here. You shut yourselves up so jealously,” said 
Cleve. “ The monastic spirit still haunts this 
place, I think. It must be that old convent 
ground. Almost every day I walk by this old 
place, and never have seen you once, even 
through the grille, until to-day.” 

She stooped to pick up the cage. 

“ I’m sure you’ll shake hands before you go. 
Miss Fanshawe, won’t you, through the grille- — 
the hedge, I mean ?” 

“Well, I wish you good-bye,” she said mer- 
rily, but without coming nearer. 

“And we are good friends?” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“And — and I’ll tell you a secret, but you 
must forgive me.” As he spoke, Cleve Verney, 
with a step or two, mounted the bank and stood 
beside the young lady within the precincts of 
Malory. 

“ Don’t mind coming in, pray,” said she. 

“ Only for a moment — only one word,” be- 
s,ouglit Cleve. 

“ Well,” laughed Miss Fanshawe, though he 
thought a little uneasily, for she glanced toward 
the house, and he fancied was thinking of Sir 
Booth. “ If you I can’t help it ; only you 
must remember there are dogs in the yard, and” 
she added, more gravely, papa has so many 
notices up to keep people away, I think he’d be 
vexed.” 

“ Here I’m almost on neutral ground. It is 
only a step, and I’m gone. I want to tell you 
— you must forgive me — but it was I who ven- 
tured to send that little boy with those squir- 
rels there. I knew how lonely you were, and I 
was selfish enough to wish to give you even so 
small an evidence of the sincerity of my profes- 
sions — my anxiety to be employed.” 

“ That little boy promised to return, but has 
never come back,” said Miss Fanshawe, throwing 
back her head a little, and pushing back her rich 
tresses*. He thought there was a brighter color 
in her cheeks, and that she looked a little haugh- 
ty. She was certainly very grave. 

“ He could not help it, poor little fellow. He 
lives at Pendillion, nine miles across the water, 
and nearly thirty by the road. You must lay 
the whole blanie upon me — you must, indeed. 
It’s all my fault.” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


89 


Miss Fanshawc was looking haughtily down 
upon the unconscious squirrels. There was some- 
thing of disdain in this glance that fell from 
under her long silken lashes askance upon them, 
hopping and frisking within their wires, as if she 
mreditated sending them away in disgrace, 

“You must not be vexed with them either, it 
is all my doing, my fault, let me confess. I ran 
down in my boat to Pendillion, and looked up 
that little fellow who always has half a dozen 
squirrels. I had to go twice to find him, and 
then brought him here, and he met a lady in 
the wood. There was no mistaking the de- 
scription, and so these little creatures are your 
happy captives — and — and I hope you a^*e not 
very angry with me.” 

The color Avas brilliant in her cheeks, and 
gave a corresponding brilliancy to her great eyes ; 
how were they so myterious and yet so frank ? 
She looked on liim gravely in silence for a mo- 
ment, and then down upon the little prisoners 
in the cage. Was she angry — was she embar- 
rassed — was she secretly pleased? That odd, 
beautiful girl — he could not quite understand 
her. 

But Mr. Cleve Yerney was an impetuous or- 
ator ; when he took fire upon a theme he ran 
on daringly — 

“ And I’ve done more — I’m even more guilty ; 
I’ll hide nothing — I’ve taken a great reward — 
I’ve got a talisman that I prize above any 
thing — tliis little coin and there w’as a bright 
shilling fixed like a “ charm” to his watch- 
guard. “ It is mine — you only can guess; no 
one shall ever know why I wore it next my 
heart, and you may blame, but you w'ont’t quite 
condemn me ; and w’on’t you make it up with 
those poor little squirrels, and tell me it’s all 
forgiven, and — by Jove, here’s Miss Sheckleton.” 

And so she was approaciiing' with her firm 
light step, and pleasant smile, in the shadow of 
the great trees, and near enough already to greet 
Mr. Yerney with — 

“ How d’ye do ? What a charming evening ! ” 
and having arrived at the hawthorn tree beside 
wliich they were standing, she added, in the low 
tone in which she habitually spoke of the Bar- 
onet — “ Sir Booth is not very well this evening 
— he’s in his room, and he’ll stay at home reading 
the newspapers, at all events for an hour or so.” 

There was a want of tact in this little inti- 
mation which had an effect quite different from 
that which the good-natured spinster intended ; 
for Miss Fanshawe said, lifting the little cage, 
and looking upon its tiny inhabitants in the sun- 
light— 

“Then I had better run in and see him.” 
And with a gay slight “ Good-bye,” she nodded 
to Mr. Cleve Yerney. The smile was only a 
momentary light, and the great hazel eyes 
looked thoughtfully as she turned away ; and as 
she disappeared among the old trees, it seemed 
to him that a dull shadow suddenly descended 
upon the trees, and the grass, and the landscape. 

“ We are always, Mr. Yerney, in a fuss here; 
that is, we never know exactly what a post may ■ 


bring us any morning or evening, or how sudden- 
ly we may have to go. You may guess what it is 
to ?«e, w’ho have to arrange every thing,” said the 
old lady, lifting her thin fingers and shaking her 
head. “ As for Margaret there, she’s both clever 
and energetic — but no experience ; and therefore, 
I don’t allow her to take her share. Poor thing, it 
is a sad thing for her, and this place so very solita- 
ry.” 

“ You must make her 'come to-morrow,” said 
Cleve, “ and see the Priory ; you only half saw 
it the other day, and I assure you it is really 
well worth looking at ; and it will make an ex- 
cuse to tempt her outside this gloomy place. I 
can’t conceive any thing worse than being shut 
up week after week in this solitude and dark- 
ness; you really must persuade her. At what 
hour do you think you will be there ?” 

“ Well now, I really will try,” said good-na- 
tured Miss Sheckleton, “positively I will ; and 
I think about three o’clock — I’ll make an ef- 
fort ; and I’ll send for the boat without asking 
her, and she can hardly refuse me then. You 
have not been here very long, Mr. Yerney?” she 
added with a not unnatural curiosity. 

“ Only a minute or two before you came,” he 
answered, a little inaccurately, I think. 

‘ ‘Well, then, to-morrow I hope to tempt her out 
a little, as you advise ; and — and ” — she glanced 
over her shoulder toward the house — “perhaps 
I had better bid you good-bye for the present, 
Mr. Yerne\"; good-bye! How beautiful evciy 
thing looks !” 

She gave him her hand very cordially. Was 
there a sort of freemasonry and a romantic sym- 
pathy in that kindly farewell ? Cleve felt that 
she at least half understood him. Even in re- 
served natures there is an instinctive yearning 
for a confidant in such situations, and a friendly 
recognition, even at a distance, of one that prom- 
ises to fill that place of sympathy. 

So there they parted with friendly looks, in a 
friendly spirit. Romantic and simple Miss 
Sheckleton, he felt that you were a true denizen 
of those regions in which of late he had been 
soaring, unworldly, true. It is well for a time 
to put off the profound attorney-nature of man 
— we brought nothing into this world, and it is 
certain we can carry nothing out — and to aban- 
don ourselves for a few happy moments to the 
poetry and kindness which are eternal. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR. 

In romances, it is usual for lovers to dream a 
great deal, and always of the objects of their 
adorations. We acquiesce gravely and kindly 
in these conventional visions ; but, on reflection, 
we must admit that lovers have no faculty of 
dreaming, and of selecting the subjects of their 
dreams, superior to that of ordinary persons. 
Cleve, I allow, sat up rather late that night, 
thinking, I venture to say, a great deal about the 


40 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


beautiful young lady who, whether for good or 
ill, now haunted his thoughts incessantly ; and 
with this brilliant phantom he walked romantic- 
ally in the moonlight, by the chiming shnigle 
of the sea. But I don’t know what his dreams 
were about, or that he had any dreams at all ; 
and in fact, I believe he slept very soundly, but 
awoke in the morning with a vague anticipation 
of something very delightful and interesting. 
Why is it that when we first awake the pleas- 
ures or the horrors of the coming day seem al- 
ways most intense ? 

Another bright autumnal day with just breeze 
enough to fill the sails of the cutter. On his 
breakfast-table, from the post-office of Ware, lay 
a letter, posted over night at Gylingden, by his 
newly revealed good angel, ^‘very truly, his,” 
Jos. Larkin. It said — 

“My dear Sir — The interview with which 
you this morning honored me, conveyed more 
fully even that your note implies, your wishes 
on the subject of it. Believe me, I needed no 
fresh incentive to exertion in a matter so preg- 
nant with serious results, and shall be only too 
happy to expend thought, time, and money, in 
securing ivith promptitude a successful termina- 
tion of what in dilatory or inexperienced hands 
might possibly prove a most tedious and dis- 
tressing case. I have before me directions of 
proofs on which I have partially acted, and 
mean in the sequel to do so completely. I may 
mention that there awaited me on my arrival a 
letter from my agent, to whom I more particu- 
larly referred in the conversation which you 
were pleased to invite this morning, conveying 
information of very high importance, of which I 
shall be happy to apprise you in detail, when 
next I have the honor of a conference. I am 
not quite clear as to whether I mentioned this 
morning a person named Dingwell ? 

“No, you did not,” interpolated Cleve. 

“ Who,” continued the letter, “resides under 
circumstances of considerable delicacy on his 
part at Constantinople, and who has hitherto 
acted as the correspondent and agent of the Jew- 
ish firm, through whom the Dowager Lady 
Verney and your uncle, the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke 
Verney, were accustomed, with a punctuality 
so honorable to their feelings, to forward the 
respective annuities, which they were so truly 
considerate as mutually to allow for the main- 
tenance of the unfortunate deceased. This 
gentleman, Mr. Dingwell, has been unhappily 
twice a bankrupt in London in early life, and 
there are still heavy judgments against him ; 
and as he is the only witness discoverable, com- 
petent, from his habits of regular communica- 
tion with your lamented uncle for years, to de- 
pose to his identity and his death, it is unfor- 
tunate that there should exist, for the special 
reasons I have mentioned, considerable risk and 
difficulty in his undertaking to visit London, 
for the purpose of making the necessary deposi- 
tions ; and I fear he can not be induced to take 
that step without some considerable pecuniary 


sacrifice on your part. This will necessarily 
form one of the topics for discussion at the pro- 
posed conference of the 15th prox. ; and it is 
no small point in our favor satisfactorily to be 
assured that a witness to the cardinal points to 
which I have referred is actually produceablc, 
and at this moment in communication with me. 

“ I have the honor to be, dear sir, very truly 
yours, J os. Larkin. 

“ The Lodge, Gylingden. 

“P.S. I may mention that the Jewish firm to 
which I have referred, have addressed to me a 
letter, apprising me of the decease of the Hon. 
Arthur Verney, a step which, as terminating the 
annuities on which they received an annual per- 
centage, they would not, I presume, have adopted, 
had they not been absolutely certain of the event, 
and confident also that we must, if they were 
silent, be otherwise apprised of it.” 

I think our old friend, Jos. Larkin, wrote this 
letter with several views, one of which was that, 
in the event of his thinking proper, some years 
hence, notwithstanding his little flourishes of 
gratuitous service, to unmuzzle the ox who had 
trod out the corn, and to send in his little bill, 
it might help to show that he had been duly 
instructed to act in this matter at least by Mr. 
Cleve Verney. The other object, that of be- 
coming the channel of negotiating terms with 
Mr. Dingwell, offered obvious advantages to a 
gentleman of acquisitive diplomacy and ingeiv- 
ious morals. 

Cleve, however, had not yet learned to sus- 
pect this Christian attorney, and the letter on 
the whole was highly satisfactory. 

“Capital man of business, this Mr. Larkin! 
AVho could have expected an answer, and so 
full an answer, so immediately to his letter? 
That is the kind of attorney the world sighed 
for. Eager, prompt, clear, making his clients’ 
interests his own” — more literally sometimes 
than Cleve was yet aware — “disinterested, 
spirited, for was not he risking his time, skill, 
and even money, without having been retained 
in this matter, and with even a warning that he 
might possibly never be so ? Did he not also 
come in the livery of religion, and discuss busi- 
ness, as it were, in a white robe and with a palm 
in his hand ? And was it not more unlikely that 
a man who committed himself every hour to the 
highest principles should practice the lowest, than 
a person who shirked the subject of virtue, and 
thought religion incongruous with his doings? 
Perhaps,” Cleve thought, “there is a little too 
much of that solemn flam. But who can object 
if it helps to keep him straight?” 

This was a day of surprises. Cleve had gone 
up to . his room to replenish his cigar-case, when 
a chaise drove up to the hall door of Ware, and 
looking out, he beheld with a sense of dismay 
his uncle’s man, Mr. Ridley, descending from his 
seat on the box, and opening the door of the 
vehicle, from which the thin stiff figure of the 
Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney descended, and en- 
tered the house. 


THE TENANTS OE MALOEY. 


41 


Could the devil have hit upon a more ill-na- | 
t-ured plan for defeating the delightful hopes of 
that day ? Why could not that teasing old man 
stay where he was ? Heaven only knows for how 
many days he might linger at Ware, lecturing 
Cleve upon themes on which his opinion was not 
worth a pin, directing him to write foolish let- 
ters, and now and then asking him to ohleege him 
by copying papers, of which he required dupli- 
cates, benumbing him by his chilly presence, and 
teasing him by his exactions. 

Cleve groaned when he saw this spectacle 
from his window, and muttered something, I 
don’t care what. 

“Let him send for me if he wants me. I 
shan’t pretend to have seen him,” was Cleve’s pet- 
ulant resolve. But a knock at his room door, with 
an invitation from his uncle to visit him in the 
library, settled the question. 

“How d’ye, do, Cleve,” and his uncle, who 
was sitting in a gi*eat chair at the table, with 
some letters, noted, and folded into long slim 
])arallelograms, already before him, put forth a 
thin hand for him to shake, throwing back his 
head; and fixing his somewhat dull gray eyes 
with an imperious sort of curiosity upon him, 
he said, “Yes — yes — recruiting. I was always 
in favor of making the most of the recess, about 
it. You make the most of it. I saw Winkle- 
don and your friend Colonel Tellerton at Dyce’s 
yesterday, and talked with ’em, about it, and 
they both agreed with me we are pretty sure of 
a stormy session, late sittings, and no end of 
divisions, and I am glad you are taking your 
holiday so sensibly. The Wave's here, isn’t 
she ? and you sail in her a good deal, I dare say, 
about it, and you’ve got yourself a good deal sun- 
burnt. Yes, the sun does that ; and you’re look- 
ing very well, about it, I think, very well indeed.” 

To save the reader trouble, I mention here, 
that the Hon KifiynEulke Verney has a habit of 
introducing the words “ about it,” as every body 
is aware who has the honor of knowing him, with- 
out relation to their meaning, but simply to caulk, 
as it were, the seams of his sentences, to stop them 
where they open, and save his speech from found- 
ering for want of this trifling halfpenny worth 
of oakum. 

“ Very lonely, sir, Ware is. You’ve come to 
stay fora little time perhaps.” 

“Oh! no. Oh, dear no. My view upon that 
subject is very decided indeed, as you know. I 
ask myself this question — What good can I pos- 
sibly do, about it, by residing for any time at 
Ware, until my income shall have been secured, 
and my proper position ascertained and recog- 
nized ? I find myself, by the anomalous absurdity 
of our existing law, placed in a position, about it, 
of so much difficulty and hardship, that although 
the people must feel it very much, and the coun- 
try regret it, I feel it only due to myself, to wash 
my hands, about it, of the entire thing for the 
present, and to accept the position of a mere pri- 
vate gentleman, which the existing law, in its wis- 
dom, imposes upon me — don’t you see ?” 

“ It certainly is,” acquiesced Cleve, “a gross 


I absurdity that there should be no provision for 
such a state of things.” 

“Absurdity! my dear sir, I don’t call it ah- 
sui'dity at all, I call it rank injustice, and a pos- 
itive cruelty^" said the feeble voice of this old 
gentleman with an eager quaver in it, while, as 
always occurred when he was suddenly called on 
for what he called his “ sentiments” upon this in- 
tolerable topic, a pink flush suffused his thin 
temples and narrow forehead. Here I am, 
adout it, invested by opinion, don’t you see, and 
a moral constraint, with the liabilities of a cer- 
tain position, and yet excluded from its privileges 
and opportunities. And what, I ask myself, can 
come of such a thing, except the sort of thing, 
about it, which we see going on ? Don’t you see ?” 

“ Any news of any kind from the East, sir?” 
asked Cleve, 

“ Well, now, wait — a — a — I’ll come to it — 
I’m coming to that. I wrote to you to say that 
you were to meet me in town, d’ye see, on the 
fifteenth, and I mean to have a Mr. Larkin, an 
attorney, a very proper person in his rank of life 
— a very proper person — about it, to meet us 
and produce his papers, and make his statement 
again. And I may tell you that he’s of opinion, 
and under the impression, that poor Arthur is 
dead^ about it; and now you’ll read this letter — 
very good, and now this — very good, and now 
this.” 

As he handed these papers over to Cleve in 
succession, the young gentleman thought his un- 
cle’s air a little grander than usual, and fiincied 
there was a faint simper of triumph discernible 
under the imposing solemnity of his looks. 

“A — well, that’s all at present ; and imme- 
diately on receiving the first of these I wrote to 
the consul there — a very proper man, very well 
connected ; I was, I may say, instrumental in 
getting his appoinftnent for him — saying he’d 
obleege me by instituting inquiry and commu- 
nicating the result, and possibly I may hear before 
the fifteenth ; and I should be very glad, about 
it, to learn or know something definite, in which 
case, you see, there would be a natural solution 
of the complication, and prove Arthur’s death, 
about it, would clear up the whole thing, as in 
fact it does in all such cases, don’t you see ?” 

“ Of course, sir, perfectly.” 

“ And as to mourning and all that, about it, 
I don’t quite see my way, no, I don’t ; because, 
d’ye see, I rather think there should be nothing 
of the kind — but it’s time enough to decide what 
the house of Verney are to do when. I shall 
have all the circumstances, don’t you see, and 
every thing.” 

Cleve acquiesced. 

“And if the dissolution comes next autumn 
— as they apprehend it may — you’ll have no an- 
noyance from the old quarter — Sir Booth Ean- 
shawe — he’s quite ruined — about it; and he’s 
been obliged to leave the country ; he’s in 
France, I understand, and I’ve directed our peo- 
ple in town to follow up the proceedings as sharp- 
ly as possible. He has never spared me, egad, 
and has often distressed me very seriously by his 


42 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


malevolent and utterly wanton opposition where 
he had absolutely no chance whatever, and knew 
it, nor any object, I give you my honor, except 
to waste my money, when, owing to the absurd 
and cruel position I was placed in, he knew very 
well I could not have a great deal to throw 
away. I look upon a person of that kind as a 
mere nuisance ; and I look upon it as a matter 
of dooty and of principle, about it, which one 
owes to society, don’t you see, to exterminate 
them like vermin. And if you want to stop it, 
you musn’t let him off when you’ve got the ad- 
vantage at last, do you see ? You must follow it 
up, and show evil-disposed people that if they 
choose to play that game they may, but that you 
won’t let’em off, about it, and that.” 

These were not very pleasant words in Cleve’s 
ears. 

And, egad, sir. I’ll make an example of that 
person — I owe it to the principle of fair political 
warfare, about it. What business had he to run 
me into six thousand pounds expense for nothing, 
when he had not really a hundred pounds at the 
time he could call his own ? And I ask myself, 
where’s the good of laws if there’s no’ way of 
reaching a person who commits, from the worst 
possible motives, an outrage like that, and goes on 
doing that sort of thing, about it ?” 

Here the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney paused for 
a minute, and then looked at his watch. 

‘‘Just ten minutes still left me. I’ll ask you 
to touch the bell, Cleve. I’m going to the rail- 
way — to LluinaUj about it, and to see the people 
at Heathcote Hall ; and I’ve been thinking you 
ought to turn over in your mind what I said last 
Easter, when we were at Dawling Hill. If this 
affair of poor Arthur’s should turn out to be quite 
genuine, I think the connection would recom- 
mend itself to most people,” he said grandly, 
“ and in fact you might strengthen yourself very 
materially, about it. You could not do better 
tlian marry Ethel ; depend upon it, the connec- 
tion. will serve you. Her uncle, you know — al- 
ways some of that family — in the Cabinet ; and 
Dorminster, they say — every one says it — 
Winkledon, for instance, and Colonel Tellers, 
about it — they both said the other day he’ll very 
probably be Minister. Every one says that sort 
of thing, about it ; and it has been my opinion 
a long time before people generally began to say 
so, and things of that sort, don’t you see ?” 

As a general rule Cleve knew that there was 
no use in fighting any favorite point with his. 
uncle. He acquiesced and relied upon dilatory 
opportunities and passive resistance ; so now he 
expressed himself most gratefully for the inter- 
est he had always taken in him, and seemed to 
lend an attentive ear, while the Hon. Kiffyn 
Fulke Verney rambled on upon this theme in 
his wise and quietly dictatorial way. It was 
one of his jdeasantest occupations, and secretly 
pleased his self-love, this management of Cleve 
Verney — really a promising young man — and 
whom he magnified, as he did every thing else 
that belonged to him, and whose successes in the 
house, and growth in general estimation, he 


quietly took to himself as the direct consequences 
of his own hints and manipulations, and his 
“ keeping the young man straight about it.” 

“He has an idea — the young man has — that 
I know something about it — that I have seen 
some public life, and know people — and things 
of that sort. He is a young man who can 
take a hint, and, egad, I think I’ve kept him 
pretty straight about it up to this, and put him 
on a right track, and things ; and if I’m spared 
I’ll put him on, sir. I know pretty well about 
things, and you see the people talk to me, and 
they listen to me, about it, and I make him un- 
derstand what he’s about, and things.” 

And then came the parting. He gave Cleve 
ten pounds, which Mrs. Jones, the draper’s wife, 
used to distribute for him among certain poor 
people of Cardyllian. So his small soul was not 
destitute of kindliness, after its fashion ; and he 
drove away from Ware, and Cleve stood upon 
the steps, smiling and waving his hand, and re- 
peating “ On the fifteenth,” and then suddenly 
was grave. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THEY VISIT THE CHAPEL OF PENRUTIIYN AGAIN. 

Very grave was Cleve Verney as the vehicle 
disappeared. His uncle’s conversation liad been 
very dismal. ‘ ‘ Ethel, indeed ! What an old 
bore he is, to be sure ! Well, no matter ; we 
shall see who’ll win the game. He is so obsti- 
nate and selfish.” There w’as, indeed, an 
enemy in front — an up-hill battle before him. 
He prayed heaven, at all events, that Pie vindic- 
tive old gentleman might not discover the ref- 
uge of Sir Booth Fanshawe. Were he to do 
so, wdiat a situation for Cleve ! He would 
talk the matter over with his uncle’s attorneys, 
who knew him, with whom he had often been 
deputed to confer on other things ; who, know- 
ing that he stood near the throne, would listen 
to him, and they would not be over-zealous in 
hunting the old Baronet down. With those 
shrewd suspicious fellows, Cleve would put it all 
on election grounds. Sir Booth was in a kind 
of way popular. There, would be a strong 
feeling against any extreme or vindictive courses 
being taken by his uncle, and this w’ould en- 
danger, or at all events embarrass Cleve very 
seriously. 

Away shadows of the future — smoke and va- 
pors of the pit ! Let us have the sun and air 
of heaven wKile we may. What a charming 
day ! how light and pleasant the breeze ! The 
sails rattle, quiver and fill, and stooping to the 
breeze, away goes the Wave — and, with a greaj 
sigh, away go Cleve’s troubles, for the present ; 
and his eye travels along the sea-board, from 
Cardyllian on to Malory, and so to the dimmer 
outline of Penruthyn Priory. 

As usual they ran for Pendillion — the wdnd 
favoring — and at two o’clock Cleve stood on the 
sea-rocked stones of the rude pier of Penrutliyn, 


43 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


and ordered liis men to bring the yacht sea- 
ward round the point of Cardrwydd, and there 
to await him. There was some generalship in 
this. His interview of the morning had whet- 
ted his instincts of caution. Round Cardrwydd 
the men could not see, and besides he wanted no 
one— especially not that young lady, whom the 
sight might move to he knew not what capri- 
cious resolve, to see the Wave in the waters of 
Penruthyn. 

Away went the yacht, and Cleve strolled up 
to the ancient Priory, from the little hillock be- 
yond which is a view of the sea half way to 
Malory. 

Three o'clock came and no sail in sight. 

“They’re not coming. I shan’t see her. 
They must have seen our sail. Hang it, I 
knew we tacked too soon. And she’s such an 
odd girl, I think, if she fancied I were here 
she’d rather stay at home, or go anywhere else. 
Three o’clock ! He held his watch to his ear 
for a moment. “By Jove! I thought it had 
stopped. That hour seems so long. I won’t 
give it up yet, though. That”— he was going 
to call him hrutCy but even under the irritation 
of the hypothesis he could not — “that oddity, 
Sir Booth, may have upset their plans or delay- 
ed them.” 

So, with another long look over the lonely j 
sea toward Malory, he descended from his post 
of observation, and sauntered, rather despond- 
ingly, by the old Priory, and down the steep 
and pretty old road, that sinuously leads to the 
shore and the ruinous little quay, for which 
boats of tourists still make. He listened and 
lingered on the way. His mind misgave him. 
He would have deferred the moment when his 
last hope was to go out, and the chance of the 
meeting, which had been his last thought at 
night, and his first in the morning, should lose 
itself in the coming shades of night. Yes, he 
would allow them a little time — it could not be 
much — and if a sail were not in sight by the 
time he reached the strand, he would give all 
up, and set out upon his dejected walk to Card- 
rwydd. 

He halted and lingered for a while in that 
embowered part of the little by-road which 
opens on the shore, half afraid to terminate a 
suspense in which was still a hope. With an 
effort, then, he walked on, over the little ridge 
of sand and stones, and, lo ! there was the boat 
with furled sails by the broken pier, and within 
scarce fifty steps the Malory ladies were approach- 
ing. 

He raised his hat — he advanced quickly — not 
knowing quite how ho felt, and hardly recollect- 
ing the minute after it w'as spoken what he had 
said. He only saw that the young lady seemed 
surprised and grave. He thought she was 
even vexed. 

“ I’m so glad \ve’ve met you here, Mr. Ver- 
ney,” said artful Miss Sheckleton. “ I was 
just thinking, compared with our last visit, how 
little profit w'e should derive from our present. 
I’m such a dance in ancient art and architecture. 


and in all the subjects, in fact, that help one to 
understand such a building as this, that I de- 
spaired of enjoying our excursion at all as I did 
our last ; but, perhaps you are leaving, and once 
more is too much to impose such a task as you 
undertook on our former visit.” 

“Going away I You could not really think 
such a thing possible, while I had a chance of 
your permitting me to do the honors of our poor 
Priory.” 

He glanced at Miss Fanshawe, who was at 
the other side of the chatty old lady, as they 
walked up the dim monastic road ; but the 
Guido was looking over the low wall into the 
Warren, and his glance passed by unheeded. 

“ I’m so fond of this old place,” said Cleve, 
to fill in a pause. “I should be ashamed to 
say — you’d think me a fool almost — how often I 
take a run over here in my boat, and wander 
about its grounds and walls, quite alone. If 
there’s a transmigration of souls, I dare say 
mine once inhabited a friar of Penruthyn— I 
feel, especially since I last came to Ware, such 
an affection for tlie old place.” 

“It’s a very nice taste, Mr. Verney. Yon 
have no reason to be ashamed of it,” said the 
old lady decisively. “ Young men, nowadays, 
are so given up to horses and field games, 
and so little addicted to any thing refined, 
that I’m quite glad when I discover any nice 
taste or accomplishment among them. You 
must have read a great deal, Mr. Verney, to bo 
able to tell us all the curious things you did 
about this old place and others.” 

“Perhaps I’m only making a great effort — a 
show of learning on an extraordinary occasion. 
You must see how my stock lasts to-day. You 
are looking into that old park. Miss Fanshawe,” 
said Cleve, slyly crossing to her side. “We 
call it the Warren ; but it was once the Prioiy 
Park. There is a very curious old grant from 
the Prior of Penruthyn, which my uncle has at 
Ware, of a right to pasture a certain number 
of cows in the park, on condition of aiding the 
Verderor in keeping up the green underwood. 
There is a good deal of holly still there, and 
some relics of the old timber, but not much. 
There is not shelter for deer now. But you 
never saw any thing like the quantity of rabbits ; 
and there are really, here and there, some very 
picturesque fragments of old forest^ capital 
studies of huge oak trees in the last stage of 
venerable decay and decrepitude, and very well 
worthy of a place in your sketch-book.” 

“I dare say ; I should only fear my book is 
hardly worthy of them,” said Miss Fanshawe. 

“I forgot to show you this when you were 
here befoi'e.” He stopped short, brushing 
aside the weeds with his walking-cane. “Here 
are the bases of the piers of the old park 
gate.” 

The little party stopped, and looked as people 
do on such old world relics. But there was 
more than the conventional interest ; or rather 
something quite different ; something at once 
sullen and pensive in the beautiful face of the 


44 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


girl. She stood a little apart, looking down on 
that old masonry. “ What is she thinking of?” 
he speculated ; “is she sad, or is she offended? 
is it pride, or melancholy, or anger? or is it 
only the poetij of these dreamy old places that 
inspires her reverie ? I don’t think she has 
listened to one word I said about it. She seem- 
ed as much a stranger as the first day I met her 
here and his heart swelled with a bitter 
yearning, as he glanced at her without seeming 
to do so. And just then, with the same sad 
face, she stooped and plucked two pretty wild 
flowers that grew by the stones, under the old 
wall. It seemed to him like the action of a 
person walking in a dream — half unconscious 
of what she was doing, quite unconscious of 
every one near her. 

“What shall we do?” said Cleve, as soon 
as they had reached the enclosure of the build- 
ings. “ Shall we begin at the refectory and 
library, or return to the chapel, which we had 
not quite looked over when you were obliged to 
go, on your last visit ?” 

This question his eyes directed to Miss Ean- 
shawe ; but as she did not so receive it. Miss 
Sheqkleton took on herself to answer for the 
party. So into the chapel they went — into 
shadow and seclusion. Once more among the 
short rude columns, the epitaphs, and round 
arches, in dim light, and he shut the heavy 
door with a clap that boomed through its lonely 
aisles, and rejoiced in his soul at having secured 
if it were only ten minutes’ quiet and seclusion 
again with the ladies of Malory. It seemed 
like a dream. 

“ I quite forgot. Miss Eanshawe,” said he, 
artfully compelling her attention, “ to show you 
a really curious, and even mysterious tablet, 
which is very old, and about which are ever so 
many stories and conjectures.” 

He conveyed them to a recess between two 
windows, where in the shade is a very odd mural 
tablet. 

“ It is elaborately carved, and is dated, you 
see, 1411. If you look near you will see that 
the original epitaph has been chipped off near 
the middle, and the w’ord which is Latin 

for ‘alas!’ cut deeply into the stone.” 

“What a hideous skull!” exclaimed the 
young lady, looking at the strange carving of 
that emblem, which projected at the summit of 
the tablet. 

“Yes, what a diabolical expression ! Isn’t 
it?” said Cleve. 

“ Are not those tears f' continued Miss Fan- 
shawe, curiously. 

‘ ‘ No, look more nearly and you will see. 
They are worms — great worms — crawling from 
the eyes, and knotting themselves, as you see,” 
answered Cleve. 

“ Yes,” said the lady, with a slight shudder, 
“ and what a wicked grin the artist has given to 
the mouth. It is wonderfully powerful ! what 
rage and misery ! It is an awful image! Is 
that a tongue ?” 

“A tongue of fire. It represents a flame is- 


suing from between the teeth ; and on the scroll 
beneath, which looks, you see, like parchment 
shriveled by fire, are the words in Latin, 
‘ Where their worm dieth not, and their fire is 
not quenched and here is the epitaph — ‘ Hie 
sunt ruinas, forma letifera, cor mortuum, lingua 
dasmonis, digitus proditor, nunc gehennae favilla, 
Plorate. Plaudite.’ It is Latin, and the meaning 

is, ‘ Here are ruins, fatal beauty, a dead heart, 
the slimy tongue of the demon, a traitor finger, 
now ashes of gehenna. Lament. Applaud.’ 
Some people say it is the tomb of the wicked 
Lady Mandeville, from whom we have the honor 
of being descended, who with her traitor finger 
indicated the place where her husband was con- 
cealed; and afterward was herself put to death, 
they say, though I never knew any evidence of 

it, by her own son. All this happened in the 
Castle of Cardyllian, which accounts for her be- 
ing buried in the comparative seclusion of the 
Priory, and yet so near Cardyllian. But anti- 
quarians say the real date of that lady’s misdo- 
ings was nearly a century later ; and so the 
matter rests an enigma, probably to the day of 
doom.” 

“ It is a very good horror. What a pity we 
shall never know those sentences that have 
been cut away,” said Miss Fanshawe. 

“That skull is worth sketching; won’t you 
try it?” said Cleve. 

“No, not for the world. I shall find it only 
too hard to forget it, and I don’t mean to look 
at it again. Some countenances seize one with 
a tenacity and vividness quite terrible.” 

“Very true,” said Cleve, turning away with 
her. “We are not rich in wonders here, but 
the old church chest is worth seeing, it is curi- 
ously carved.” 

He led them toward a niche in which it is 
placed, near the communion rails. But said 
Miss Sheckleton — 

“I’m a little tired, Margaret; you will look 
at it, dear ; and Mr. Verney will excuse me. 
We have been delving and hoeing all the morn- 
ing, and I shall rest here for a few minutes.” 
And she sat down on the bench. 

Miss Margaret Fanshawe looked at her a lit- 
tle vexed, Cleve thought ; and the young lady 
said — 

“ Hadn’t you better come ? It’s only a step, 
and Mr. Verney says it is really curious.” 

“ I’m a positive old woman,” said Cousin 
Anne, “ as you know, and really a little tired ; 
and you take such an interest iti old carving in 
wood — a thing I don’t at all understand, JMr. 
Verney ; she has a book quite full of really 
beautiful drawings, some taken at Brussels, and 
some at Antwerp. Go, dear, and see it, and I 
shall be rested by the time you come back.” 

So spoke good-natured Miss Sheckleton, de- 
priving Margaret of every evasion ; and she ac- 
cordingly followed Cleve Verney as serenely as 
she might have followed the verger. 

“Here it is,” said Cleve, pausing before the 
recess in which this antique kist is placed. He 
glanced toward Miss Sheckleton. She was a 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


45 


good way off— out of hearing, if people spoke 
low ; and besides, busy making a pencilled note 
in a little book which she had brought to light. 
Thoughtful old soul ! 

‘ ‘ And about the way in which faces rivet the 
imagination and haunt the memory, I’ve never 
experienced it but once,” said Cleve, in a very 
low tone. 

‘ ‘ Oh, it has happened to me often, very often. 
From pictures, I think, always ; evil expressions 
of countenance that are ambiguous and hard to 
explain, always something demoniacal, I think,” 
said the young lady. 

“ There is nothing of the demon — never was, 
never could be — in the phantom that haunts 
me,” said Cleve. “It is, on the contrary — I 
don’t say angelfc. Angels are very good, but 
not interesting. It is like an image called up 
by an enchanter — a wild, wonderful spirit of 
beauty and mysteiy. .In darkness or light I al- 
ways see it. You like to escape from yours. I 
would not lose mine for worlds ; it is my good 
genius, my inspiration ; and whenever that im- 
age melts into air, and I see it no more, the la§t 
good principle of my life will have perished.” 

The young lady laughed in a silvery little ca- 
dence that had a sadness in it, and said — 

“Your superstitions are much prettier than 
mine. My good Cousin Anne, there, talks of 
blue devils, and my familiars are, I think, of 
that vulgar troop ; while yours are all couleur de 
rose, and so elegantly got up, and so perfectly 
presentable and well-bred, that I really think I 
should grow quite tired of the best of them in a 
five minutes’ tete-a-tete.'*' 

“I must have described my apparition very 
badly,” said Cleve. “ That which is lovely be- 
yond all mortal parallel can be described only 
by its effects upon your fancy and emotions, and 
in proportion as these are intense, I believe they 
are incommunicable.” 

“Yon are growing quite too metaphysical for 
me,” said Miss Margaret Fanshawe. “ I respect 
metaphysics, but I never could understand 
them.” 

“It is quite true,” laughed Cleve. “I was 
so. I hate metaphysics myself ; and they have 
nothing to do with this, they are so dry and de- 
testable. But, now, as a physician — as an ex- 
orcist — tell me, I entreat, in my sad case, haunt- 
ed by a beautiful phantom of despair, which I 
have mistaken for my good angel, how am I to 
redeem myself from this fatal spell.” 

A brilliant color tinged the young lady’s 
cheeks, and her great eyes glanced on him for a 
moment, he thought, with a haughty and even 
angry brilliancy. 

“ I don’t profess the arts you mention ; but I 
doubt tlie reality of your spectre. I think it is 
an illasiun, depending on an undue excitement 
in the organ of self-esteem, quite to be dispelled 
by restoring the healthy action of those other 
organs — of common sense. Seriously, I’m not 
compeicnt to advise gentlemen, young or old, 
in their difficulties, real or fancied ; but I cer- 
tainly would say to any one who had set before 


him an object of ambition, the attainment of 
which he thought would be injurious to him, — 
be manly, have done with it, let it go, give it to 
the winds. Besides, you know that half the ob- 
jects which young men place before them, the 
ambitions which they cherish, are the merest 
castles in the air, and that all but themselves 
can see the ridicule of their aspirations.” 

“You must not go. Miss Fanshawe; you 
have not seen the carving you came here to look 
at. Here is the old church chest ; but — but sup- 
pose the patient — let us call him — knows that 
the object of his — his ambition is on all accounts 
the best and noblest he could possibly have set 
before him. What then?” 

‘ ‘ What then ! ” echoed Miss Fanshawe. ‘ ‘ How 
can any one possibly tell — but the patient, as 
you call him, himself — what he should do. Your 
patient does not interest me; he wearies me. 
Let us look at this carving.” 

“Do you think he should despair because 
there is no present answer to his prayers, and 
his idol vouchsafes no sign or omen ?” persist- 
ed Cleve. 

“I don’t think,” she replied with a cold im- 
patience, “the kind of person you describe is 
capable of despairing in such a case. I think 
he would place too high a value upon his merits 
to question the certainty of their success — don’t 
you ?” said the young lady. 

“Well, no; I don't think so. He is not an 
unreal person ; I know him, and I know that 
his good opinion of himself is humbled, and 
that he adores with an entire abandonment of 
self the being whom he literally worships.” 

“Very adoring, perhaps, but rather — that’s a 
great dog like a wolf-hound in that panel, and 
it has got its fangs in that pretty stag’s throat,” 
said Miss Fanshawe, breaking into a criticism 
upon the carving. 

“ Yes — but you were saying ‘ Very adoring, 
but rather’ — what ?” urged Cleve. 

“ Rather silly, don’t you think ? What busi- 
ness have people adoring others of whom they 
know nothing — who may not even like them 
— who may possibly J/slike them extremely? 
I am tired of your good genius. I hope 
I’m not very rude — and of your friend’s fol- 
ly — tired as you must be ; and I think we 
should both give him very much the same ad- 
vice. I should say to him, pray don’t sacrifice 
yourself ; you are much too precious ; consider 
ycfur own value, and above all remember that 
even should you make up your mind to the hu- 
miliation of the altar and the knife, the ceremo- 
nial may prove a fruitless mortification, and the 
opportunity of accomplishing your sacrifice bo 
denied you by your divinity. And I think 
that’s a rather well-rounded period : don’t you ?” 

By this time Miss Margaret Fanshawe had 
reached her cousin, who stood up smiling. 

“ I’m ashamed to say I have been actually 
amusing myself here with my accounts. We 
have seen, I think, nearly every thing now in 
this building. I should so like to visit the ruins 
at the other side of the court-yard.” 


46 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


‘ • I shall bo only too happy to be your guide, 
if you permit me,” said Cleve. 

And accordingly they left the church, and 
Clevc shut the door with a strange feeling both 
of irritation and anxiety. 

“ Does she dislike me? Or is she engaged ? 
What can her odd speeches mean, if not one or 
other of these things ? She warns me off, and 
seems positively angry at my approach. She 
took care that I should quite understand her iron- 
ies, and there w'as no mistaking the reality of 
her unaccountable resentment.” 

So it was with a weight at his heart, the like 


I long, with the hand of defiance — the water of 
I Lethe. Vain, vain ; in sympathetic dyes, the 
shadow stained upon the brain still fills his 
retina, glides before him, in light and shadow, 

' and will not be divorced. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


CLEVE AGAIN BEFORE HIS IDOL. 

Cleve could not rest — he could not return 
to Ware. He would hear his fate defined by 
of which he had never experienced before, that ; her who had growm so inexpressibly dear by be- 
Cleve undertook, and I fear in a rather spiritless ' ing unattainable ! Intolerant of impediment 


way performed his duty as cicerone, over the 
other-^rts of the building. 

Her manner seemed to him changed, chilled, 


or delay, this impetuous spirit would end all, 
and know all, that very night. 

The night had come — one that might have 


and haughty. Had there come a secret and i come in June. The moon was up — the air so 
sudden antipathy, the consequence of a too ! sweetly soft — the blue of heaven so deep and 


hasty revelation of feelings which he ought in 
prudence to have kept to himself for some time 
longer ? And again came with a dreadful pang. 


liquid. 

His yacht lay on the deep quiet shadow, under 
the pier of Cardyllian. He walked over the 


the thought that her heart W'as already won — moon-lighted green, which was now quite de- 
the heart so cold and impenetrable to him — the ; sorted. The early town had already .had its 
passionate and docile worshiper of another man tea and “ pikelets.” Alone — if lovers ever are 


— some beast — some fool. But the first love — 
the only love worth Iiaving; and yet, of all 
loves the most ignorant — the insanest. 

Bitter as gall was the outrage to his pride. 
He would have liked to appear quite indifferent, 
but he could not. He knew the girl would pen- 
etrate his finesse. She practiced none herself ; 
he could see and feel a change that galled him 


alone — he walked along the shore, and heard 
the gentle sea ripple rush and sigh along the 
stones. He ascended the steep path that mounts 
the sea-beaten heights, overloooking Cardyllian 
on one side, and Malory on the other. 

Before him lay the landscape on Avhich he 
had gazed as the sun went down that evening, 
when the reflected light from the gold and crim- 


— very slight but intolerable. Would it not be a ' son sky fell softly round. And now, how changed 
further humiliation to be less frank than she, and ' every thing ! The moon’s broad disk over the 
to practice an affectation which she despised. ' headland was silvering the objects dimly. The 
Miss Sheckleton eyed the young people ' ivied castle at his left looked black against the 
stealthily and curiously now and then, he I sky. The ruins, how empty now ! Ilow'beauti- 
thought. She suspected perhaps more than ' ful every thing, and he how prodigious a fool ! 
there really w'as, and she was particularly kind ! No matter. We have time enough to be wise, 
and grave at parting, and he thought, observed I Aw’ay, to-morrow, or at latest, next day ; and 
him with a sort of romantic compassion which ; in due course would arrive the season — that 


is so pretty in old ladies. 

He did touch Miss Fanshawe’s hand at part- 
ing, and she smiled a cold and transient smile 
as she gathered her cloaks about her, and look- 
ed over the sea, toward the setting sun. In 
that clear, mellow glory, how wonderfully beau- 


tiresome House of Commons — and the routine 
of pleasure, grown on a sudden so insupportably 
dull. 

So he bad his walk in the moonlight toward 
Malory — the softest moonlight that ever fell 
from heaven — the air so still and sweet: it 


tiful she looked ! He w^as angry with himself seemed an enchanted land. Down the hill tow- 
for the sort of adoration which glowed at his ard Malory he sauntered, looking sometimes 
heart. What -would he not have given to be moonward, sometimes on the dark woods, and 
indifferent, and to make her feel that he was so ! feeling as five weeks since he could not have be- 
He smiled and waved his farewell to Miss lieved himself capable of feeling, and so he ar- 
Sheckleton. Miss Fanshawe was now looking rived at the very gate of Malory, 
toward Malory. The boat was gliding swiftly | Here stood two ladies, talking low their 
into distance, and disappeared with the sunset desultory comments on the beautiful scene, as 
glittering on its sides, round the little head- | they looked across the water toward the head- 


land, and Cleve was left alone. 

His eyes dropped to the shingle, and broken 
shells, and sea-weed, that shone beneath his 
feet, in that level stream of amber light. He 
thought of going away, thought what a fool he 
had been, thought of futurity and fate, with a 
sigh, and renounced the girl, washed out the 
portrait before which he had worshiped for so 


land of Pendillion. And these two ladies were 
the same from whom he had parted so few 
hours since. It was still very early everywhere 
except at Card^dlian, and these precincts of Mal- 
ory, so entirely deserted at these hours that 
there seemed as little chance of interruption at 
the gate, as if they had stood in the drawing- 
room windows. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


47 


Cleve was under too intense and impetuous 
an exeitement to hesitate. He approached the 
iron gate where, as at a convent grille, the old 
and the young recluse stood. The moonlight 
was of that intense and brilliant kind which 
defines objects clearly as day-light. The ladies 
looked both surprised ; even Miss Anne Shee- 
kleton looked grave. 

“How very fortunate!” said Cleve, raising 
his hat, and drawing near. Just then he did 
not care whether Sir Booth should ehance to 
see him there or not, and it was not the turn of 
his mind to think, in the first place, of conse- 
quences to other people. 

Happily, perhaps, for the quiet of Malory, 
one of Sir Booth’s caprices had dispensed that 
night with his boat, and he was at that moment 
stretched in his long silk dressing-gown and 
slippers, on thesofii, in what he called his study. 
After the first instinctive alarm, therefore, Miss 
Anne Sheckleton had quite reeovered her ac- 
eiistomed serenity and cheer of mind, and even 
interrupted him, before he had well got to the 
end of his salutation, to exclaim — 

“ Did you ever, anywhere, see such moon- 
light? It almost dazzles me.” 

‘‘ Quite splendid ; and Malory looks so pic- 
turesque in this light.” He was leaning on the 
pretty old gate, at which stood both ladies, suf- 
ficiently far apart to enable him, in a low tone, 
to say to the younger, without being overheard 
— “So interesting in every light, now ! I won- 
der your men don’t suspect me of being a 
poacher, or something else very bad, I find my- 
self prowling about here so often, at this hour, 
and even later.” 

“I admire that great headland — Pendillion, 
isn’t it ? — so very much ; by this light dne 
might fancy it white with snow,” said Miss 
Sheckleton. 

“ I wish you could see Cardrwydd Island 
now ; the gray cliffs in this light are so white 
and transparent, you can hardly imagine so 
strange and beautiful an effect,” said Cleve. 

“ I dare say,” said Miss Sheckleton. 

“You have only to walk about twenty steps 
across that little road toward the sea, and you 
have it full in view. Do let me persuade you,” 
said Cleve. 

“Well, I don’t mind,” said Miss Sheckleton. 
“ Come, Margaret, dear,” and these latter words 
she repeated in private exhortation, and then 
aloud she added — “ We have grown so much 
into the habit of shutting ourselves up in our 
convent grounds, that we feel like a pair of run- 
away nuns whenever we pass the walls ; how- 
ever, I must see the island.” 

The twenty steps toward the sea came to be 
a hundred or more, and at last brought them 
close under the rude rocks that form the little 
I>ier ; in that place the party stopped, and saw 
the island, rising in the distant sheen, white 
and filmy ; a phantom island, with now and 
then a gleam of silvery spray, from the swell 
which was unfclt within the estuary, shooting 
suddenly across its points of shadow. 


“ Oh ! how beautiful !” exclaimed Miss Fan- 
shawe, and Cleve felt strangely elated in her 
applause. They were all silent, and Miss 
Sheckleton, still gazing on the distant cliffs, 
walked on a little, and a little more, and 
paused. 

“ How beautiful!” echoed Cleve, in tones as 
low, but very different. “ Yes, how beautiful 
— how fatally beautiful ; how beloved, and yet 
how cold. Cold, mysterious, wild as the sea ; 
beautiful, adored and cruel. How could you 
speak as you did to-day ? What have I done, 
or said, or thought, if you could read my 
thoughts ? I tell you, ever since I saw you in 
Cardyllian Church I’ve thought only of you ; you 
haunt my steps ; you inspire my hopes ; I adore 
you, Margaret.” 

She was looking on him with parted lips, 
and something like fear in her large eyes, nnd 
how beautiful her features were in the brilliant 
moonlight. 

“Yes, I adore you; I don’t know what fate 
or fiend rules these things ; but to-day it seem- 
ed to me that you hated me, and yet I adore 
you ; do you hate me ?” 

“ How wildly you talk; you can't love me; 
you don’t know me,” said this odd girl. 

“I don’t know you, and yet I love you; you 
don’t know me^ and yet I think you hate me. You 
talk of love as if it were a creation of reason 
and calculation. You don’t know it, or you 
could not speak so ; antipathies perhaps you do 
experience ; is there no caprice in them ? I love 
you in dejiance of calculation, and of reason, 
and of hope itself. I can no more help loving 
you than the light and air without which I 
should die. You’re not going ; you’re not so 
cruel ; it may be the last time you shall ever 
hear me speak. You won’t believe me ; no, 
not a word I say, although it’s all as true as that 
this light shines from heaven. You’d believe 
one of your boatmen relating any nonsense he 
pleases about people and places here. You’ll 
believe worse fellows, I dare say, speaking of 
higher and dearer things, perhaps — I can’t tell ; 
but 7?ze, on this^ upon which I tell you all de- 
pends for me, you won’t believe. I never loved 
any mortal before. I did not know what it was, 
and now here I stand, telling you my bitter 
story, telling it to the sea, and the rocks, and 
the air, with as good a chance of a hearing. I 
read it in your manner and your words to-day. 
I felt it intuitively ; you don’t care for me ; 
you can’t like me ; I sec it in your looks. And 
now, will you tell me — for God’s sake, Mar- 
garet, do tell me — is there not some one — some 
one you do like? I know there is.” 

“That’s qidie untrue — I mean there is noth- 
ing of the kind,” said this young lady, looking 
very pale, with great flashing eyes, “and one 
word more of this kind to-night you are not to 
say tome. Cousin Anne/’ she called, “come, 
I’m going back.” 

“We are so much obliged to you, Mr. Ver- 
ney,” said IMiss Sheckleton, returning; “we 
should never have thought of coming down 


48 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


here, to look for this charming view; come, 
Margaret, darling, your papa may want me.” 

An inquisitive glance she darted furtively at 
the young people, and I dare say she thought 
that she saw something unusual in their counte- 
nances. 

As they did not speak. Miss Sheckleton chat- 
ted on unheeded, till, on a sudden, Cleve inter- 
posed with — 

“There's an old person — an old lady, I may 
call her — named Kebecca Mervyn, who lives in 
the steward’s house, adjoining Malory, for whom 
I have a very old friendship ; she was so kind 
to me, poor thing, when I was a boy. My 
grandmother has a very high opinion of her ; 
and she was never very easily pleased. I sup- 
pose you have seen Mrs. Mervyn ; you’d 
not easily forget her, if you have. They tell 
me in the town that she is quite well ; the same 
odd creature she always was, and living still in 
the steward’s house.” 

“I know — to be sure — I’ve seen her very 
often — that is, half a dozen times or more — and 
she is a very odd old woman, like that benevo- 
lent enchantress in the ‘ Magic King’ — don’t 
you remember? who lived in the castle with 
white lilies growing allround the battlements,” 
answered Miss Sheckleton. 

“ I know,” said Cleve, who had never read it. 

“And if you want to see her, here she is, odd- 
ly enough,” whispered Miss Sheckleton, as the 
old woman with whom Sedley had conferred on 
the sea-beach came round the corner of the 
boundary wall near the gateway by which they 
were now standing, in her gray cloak, with de- 
jected steps, and looking, after her wont, sea- 
ward toward Pendillion. 

“No,” said Cleve, getting up a smile as he 
drew a little back into the shadow ; ‘ ‘ I’ll not 
speak to her now ; I should have so many ques- 
tions to answer, I should not get away from her 
for an hour.” 

Almost as he spoke the old woman passed 
them, and entered the gate ; as she did so, look- 
ing hard on the little party, and hesitating for a 
moment, as if she would have stopped outright. 
But she went on without any farther sign. 

“I breathe again,” said Cleve; “I was so 
afraid she would know me again, and insist on 
a talk.” 

“Well, perhaps it is better she did not; it 
might not do, you know, if she mentioned your 
name, for reasons,^’ whispered Miss Sheckleton, 
who was on a sudden much more intimate with 
Clove, much more friendly, much more kind, 
and somehow pitying. 

So he bade good-night. Miss Sheckleton 
gave him a little friendly pressure as they shook 
hands at parting. Miss Fanshawe neither gave 
nor refused her hand. He took it ; he held it 
for a moment — that slender hand, all the world 
to him, clasped in his own, yet never to be his, 
lodged like a stranger’s for a moment there — 
then to go forever. The hand was carelessly 
drawn away ; he let it go, and never a word 
spoke he. 


The ladies entered the deep shadow of the 
trees. He listened to the light steps fainting 
into silent distance, till he could hear them no 
more. 

Suspense — still suspense. 

Those words spoken in her clear undertone — 
terrible words, that seemed at the moment to 
thunder in his ears, “ loud as a trumpet with a 
silver sound” — -were they, after all, words of de- 
spair, or words of hope ? 

“ One word more of this kind to-night you are 
not to say to me,'' 

How was he to translate the word “ to-night” 
in this awful text ? It seemed, as she spoke it, 
intrqduced simply to add peremptoriness to her 
forbiddance. But was that its fair meaning ? 
Did it not imply that the prohibition was limit- 
ed only to that night? Might it not mean that 
he was free to speak more — possibly to hear 
more — at a future time ? 

A riddle ? Well he would read it in the way 
most favorable to his hopes; and who Avill 
blame him ? He would have no oracles — no 
ambiguities — nothing but sharply defined cer- 
tainty. 

With an insolent spirit, instinct with an im- 
patience and impetuosity utterly intolerant of 
the least delay or obstruction, the interval could 
not be long. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

CLEVE VERNEY TAKES A BOLD STEP. 

When we seek danger he is sometimes — like 
death — hard to find. Cleve would not have 
disliked an encounter with Sir Booth Fanshawe; 
who could tell what might come of such a meet- 
ing? It was palpably so much the interest of 
that ruined gentleman to promote his wishes, 
that, if he would only command his temper and 
listen to reason, he had little doubt of enlisting 
him zealously in his favor. It was his own un- 
cle who always appeared to him the really for- 
midable obstacle. 

Therefore, next night, Cleve fearlessly walk- 
ed down to Malory. It was seven o’clock, and 
dark. It was a still, soft night. The moon not 
up yet, and all within the gate dark as Erebus 
— silent, also, except for the fall of a dry leaf 
now and then, rustling sadly through the boughs. 

At the gate for a moment he hesitated, and 
then with a sudden decision pushed it open, 
entered, and the darkness received him. A little 
confused were his thoughts and feelings as he 
strode, through that darkness and silence toward 
the old house. So dark it was, that to direct his 
steps he had to look up for a streak of sky be- 
tween the nearly meeting branches of the trees. 

This trespass was not a premeditated outrage. 
It was a sudden inspiration of despair. He had 
thought of writing to Sir Booth. But to what 
mischief might not that fierce and impracticable 
old man apply his overt act ? Suppose he were 
to send his letter on to the Hon. Kifiyn Fulke 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


49 


Verney ? In that case Mr. Cleve Vemey might 
moralize with an income of precisely two hun- 
dred a year, for the rest of his days, upon the 
transitory nature of a-11 human greatness. At 
the next election he would say a compulsory 
farewell to the House. He owed too much 
meney to remain pleasantly in England, his 
incensed uncle would be quite certain to marry, 
and with Cleve Verney — ex-M.P., and quondam 
man of promise, and presumptive Earl of Yer- 
ney — conclamatuin foret. 

He had therefore come to the gate of Malory 
in the hope of some such happy chance as befell 
the night before. And now disappointed, he 
broke through all considerations, and was walk- 
ing, in a sort of desperation, right into the lion's 
mouth. 

He slackened his pace, however, and be- 
thought him. Of course, he could not ask at 
this hour to see Miss Anne Sheckleton. Should 
he go and pay a visit to old Rebecca Mervyn ? 
Hour and circumstances considered, would not 
that also be a liberty and an outrage ? What 
would they think of it ? What W'ould he say of 
it in another fellow’s case ? Was he then going 
at this hour to pay his respects to Sir Booth 
Fanshawe, whom he had last seen and heard in 
the thunder and dust of the hustings, hurling 
language and grammar that were awful at his 
head? 

Cleve Verney was glad that he had pulled up 
before he stood upon the door steps ; and he 
felt like an awakened somnambulist. 

“I carCt do this. It’s impossible. Wliat a 
brute I am growing,” thought Cleve, awaking to 
realities. “ There’s nothing for it, I believe, but 
patience. If I were now to press for an answer, 
she would say ‘ No ’ ; and were I to ask admis- 
sion at the house at this hour, what would she 
— what would Miss Sheckleton, even, think of 
me ? If I had nerve to go away and forget her, 
I should be happier— quite happy and quite 
good for nothing, and perfectly at my uncle’s dis- 
posal. As it is, I’fn miserable — a miserable fool. 
Every thing against it — even the girl, I believe ; 
and I here — partly in a vision of paradise, part- 
ly in the torments of the damned, wasting my 
life in the dream of an opium-eater, and with- 
out power to break from it, and see the world 
as it is.” 

He w'as leaning with folded arms, like the 
melancholy Jacques, against the trunk of a for- 
est tree, as this sad soliloquy glided through his 
mind, and he heard a measured step approach- 
ing slowly from the house. 

“ This is Sir Booth coming,” thought he, with 
a strange, sardonic gladness. “We shall see 
what will come of it. Let us hear the old gen- 
tleman, by all means.” 

The step was still distant. 

It would have been easy for him to retrace 
his steps, and to avoid the encounter. But it 
seemed to him that to stir would have been like 
moving a mountain, and a sort of cold defiance 
kept him there, and an unspeakable interest in 
the story which he W’as enacting, and a longing 
D 


to turn over the leaf, and read the next decisive 
page. So he waited. 

His conjecture was right, but the anticipated 
dialogue did not occur. The tall figure of Sir 
Booth appeared ; some wrappers thrown across 
his arm. He stalked on and passed by Cleve, 
without observing, or rather, seeing him ; for 
his eye had not grown like Cleve’s, accustomed 
to the darkness. 

Cleve stood where he was till the step was 
lost in "silence, and waited for some time longer, 
and heard Sir Booth’s voice, as he supposed, 
hailing the boatmen from that solitary shore, 
and theirs replying, and he thought of the ghost- 
ly boat and boatmen that used to scare him in 
the “ Tale of Wonder” beloved in his boyhood. 
For any thing that remains to him in life, for 
any retrospect but one of remorse, he might as 
well be one of those phantom boatmen on the 
haunted lake. By this time he is gliding, in the 
silenee of his secret thoughts, upon the dark sea 
outside Malory. 

“Well!” thought Cleve, with a sudden in- 
spiration, “he will not return for two hours at 
least. I will go on — no great harm in merely 
passing the house — and we shall see whether 
any thing turns up.” 

On went Cleve. The approach to the old 
house is not a very long one. On a sudden, 
through the boughs, the sight of lighted windows 
met his eyes, and through the open sash of one 
of them, he heard faintly the pleasant sound of 
female prattle. 

He drew nearer. He stood upon the espla- 
nade before the steps, under the well-known gray 
front of the old house. A shadow crossed the 
window, and he heard Miss Anne Sheckleton’s 
merry voice speaking volubly, and then a little 
silence, of which he availed himself to walk with 
as distinct a tread as he could manage, at a little 
distance, in front of the windows, in the hope of 
exciting the attention of the inmates. He suc- 
ceeded ; for almost at the instant two shadowy 
ladies, the lights being within the room, and 
hardly any from without, appeared at the open 
window ; Miss Sheckleton was in front, and 
Miss Fanshawe with her hand leaning upon 
her old cousin’s shoulder, looked out also. 

Cleve stopped instantly, and approached, rais- 
ing his hat. This young gentleman was also a 
mere dark outline, and much less distinct than 
those he recognized against the cheery light of 
the drawing-room candles. But I don’t think 
there was a moment’s doubt about his identity. 

“ Here I am, actually detected, trying to glide 
by unperceived,” said Cleve, lying, as Mr. Fag 
says in the play, and coming up quickly to the 
open window. “ You must think me quite mad, 
or the most impudent person alive ; but what 
am I to do ? I can’t leave Ware, without pay- 
ing old Rebecca — Mrs. Mervyn, you know — a 
visit. Lady Verney blows me up so awfully 
about it, and has put it on me as a duty. She 
thinks there’s no one like old Rebecca; and 
really poor old Mervyn was always very kind to 
me when I was a boy. She lives, you know, 


50 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


in tliG steward’s house. I can’t come up here 
in day-light. I’m in such a dilemma. I must 
wait till Sir Booth has gone out in his boat, 
don’t you see ? and so I did ; and if I had just 
got round the corner there, without your observ- 
ing me, I should have been all right. I’m really 
quite ashamed. I must look so like a trespass- 
er — a poacher — every thing that is suspicious ; 
but the case, you see, is really so difficult. I’ve 
told you every thing, and I do hope you quite 
acquit me.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Miss Sheckleton. ^^We7nust, 
you know. It’s like a piece of a Spanish com- 
edy ; but what’s to be done ? You must have 
been very near meeting. Booth has only just 
gone down to the boat. ” 

“We did meet — that is, he actually passed 
me by, but without seeing me. I heard him 
coming, and just stood, taking my chance ; it 
was very dark, you know.” 

“Well, I forgive you,” said Miss Sheckleton. 
“ I must, you know ; but the dogs won’t. You 
hear them in the yard. What good, dear crea- 
tures they are ; and when they hear us talking 
to you, they’ll grow quite quiet and understand 
that all is well, they are so intelligent. And 
there’s the boat ; look, Margaret, through that 
opening, you can just see it. When the moon 
gets up, it looks so pretty. I suppose it’s my 
bad taste, but those clumsy fishing boats seem 
to me so much more picturesque than your nat- 
ty yachts, though, of course, they are very nice 
in their way. Do you hear how furious you 
have made our great dog, poor old Neptune! 
He looks upon us, Margaret and I, as in his spe- 
cial charge ; but it does not do, making such an 
uproar.” 

I fancy she was thinking of Sir Booth, for she 
glanced toward the boat ; and perhaps the kind 
old lady was thinking of somebody else, also. 

“I’ll just run to the back window, and qui- 
et him. I shan’t be away a moment, Marga- 
ret, dear.” 

And away went Miss Sheckleton, shutting the 
door. Miss Eanshawe had not said a W’ord, 
but remained at the window looking out. You 
might have thought his being there, or not, a 
matter of entire indifference to her. She had 
not said a word. She looked toward the point 
at wdiich the rising splendor of the moon was 
already visible over the distant hills. 

“Did you miss any thing — I’m sure you did 
— yesterday ? I found a pin at the jetty of Pen- 
ruthyn. It is so pretty, I’ve been ever so much 
tempted to keep it ; so very pretty, that some- 
how% I think it could not have belonged to any 
one but to you”’ 

And he took the trinket from his w'aistcoat 
pocket. 

“ Oh ! Pm so glad,” said she; “I thought I 
had seen it this morning, and could not think 
w’hat had become of it. I never missed it till 
this evening.” 

He touched the fingers she extended to re- 
ceive it. He took them in his hand, and held 
them with a gentle force. 


“Eor one moment allow me to hold your 
hand ; don’t take it from me yet. I implore, 
only while I say a few words, which you may 
make, almost by a look, a farcw’ell — my eternal 
farewell. Margaret, I love you as no other man 
ever will love you. You think all this but the 
madness that young men talk. I know nothing 
of them. What I say is desperately true, no 
madness, but sad and irreparable reality. I 
never knew love but for you — and for you it is 
such idolatry as I think the world never im- 
agined. You are never for one moment from 
my thoughts. Every good hope or thought I 
have, I*owe to you. You are the good principle 
of my life, and if I lose you, I am lost myself.” 

This strange girl was not a conventional 
young lady. I don’t pronounce whether she w'as 
better or worse for that. She did not drop her 
eyes, nor yet withdraw her hand. She left that 
priceless pledge in his, it seemed, unconscious- 
ly, and with eyes of melancholy and earnest in- 
quiry, looked on the handsome young man that 
was pleading with her. 

“It is strange,” she said in a dreamy tone, 
as if talking with herself. “I said it w^as 
strange, for he does not, and can not know me.” 

“Yes,” he answ'ered, “I do know^ you — in- 
tuitively I know you. We have all faith in the 
beautiful. We can not separate the beautiful 
and the good ; they come both direct from God, 
they resemble him ; and I know your powder — 
you can make of me wliat you will. Oh, Mar- 
garet, will you shut me out forever from the 
only chance of good I shall ever know ? Can 
you ever, ever like me ?” 

There was a little silence, and she said, very 
low, “If I were to like you, would you love me' 
better than any thing else in all the W'orld ?” 

“Than all the w’orld — than all the w'orld,” he 
reiterated, and she felt the hand of this young 
man of fashion, of ambition, who had years ago 
learned to sneer at all romance, quiver as it 
held her owm. 

“ But first, if I were to allo-^ any one to like 
me, I w'ould say to him you must know wliat 
you undertake. You must love me with your 
entire heart ; heart and soul, you must give 
yourself altogether up to me. I must be every 
thing to you — your present, your future, your 
happiness, your hope ; for I will not bear to share 
your heart with any thing on earth ! and these 
are hard terms, but the only ones.” 

“ I need make no vow, darling — darling. !Riy 
life is what you describe, and I can not help it ; 

I adore you. Oh ! Margaret, can you like me ?” 

Then Margaret Fanshaw'e answered, and in a 
tone the most sad, I think, that ever spoke,; and 
to him, the sweetest and most solemn ; like dis- 
tant music in the night, funereal and plaintive, 
the cadences fell upon his entranced ear. 

“ If I were to say I could like you enough to 
wait, and try if I could like you more, it ahvays 
seemed to me so awful a thing — try if I could 
like you more — w^ould not the terms seem to you 
too hard?” 

“Oh! Margaret, darling, say you can like me 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 51 


now. You know liow I adore yon,” he im- 
plored. 

“ Here, then, is the truth. I do not like you 
well enough to say all that ; no, I dp not, but I 
like you too well to say go. I don’t know how 
it may be, but if you choose to wait, and give 
me a very little time to resolve, I shall see clear- 
ly, and all uncertainty come to an end, somehow, 
and God guide us all to good ! That is the 
whole truth, Mr. Verney ; and pray say no more 
at present. You shall not wait long for my 
answer.” 

“ I agree, darling. I accept your terms. You 
don’t know what delay is to me ; but any thing 
rather than despair.” 

She drew her hand to herself. He released 
it. It was past all foolish by-play with him, 
and the weight of a strange fear lay upon his 
heart. 

This little scene took longer in speaking and 
acting than it does in reading in this poor note 
of mine. When they looked up, the moon was 
silvering the tops of the trees, and the distant 
edges of the Welsh mountains, and glimmering 
and flashing to and fro, like strings of diamonds, 
on the water. 

And now Miss Anne Sheckleton entered, 
having talked old Neptune into good-humor. 

“ Is there a chance of your visiting Penruthyn 
again ?” asked Cleve, as if nothing unusual had 
passed. “ You have not seen the old park. 
Pray, come to-morrow.” 

Miss Sheckleton looked at the young lady, 
but she made no sign. 

Shall we? I see nothing against it,” said 

she. 

Oh ! do. I entreat,” ho persisted. 

“Well, if it should be fine, and if nothing 
prevents, I think, I may say, we will, about 
three o’clock to-morrow.” 

Margaret did not speak ; but was there not 
something sad and even gentle in her parting ? 
The old enigma w’as still troubling his brain and 
heart, as he walked down the dark avenue once 
more. How would it all end ? How would 
she at last pronounce ? 

The walk, next day, was taken in the War- 
ren, as he had proposed. I believe it was a 
charming excursion ; as happy, too, as under 
the bitter conditions of suspense it could be ; 
but nothing worthy of record was spoken, and 
matters, I dare say, remained, ostensibly at least, 
precisely as they were. 


CHAPTER XX. 

HIS FATE. 

Cleve Verney, as we know, was a young 
gentleman in whose character were oddly min- 
gled impetuosity and caution. A certain diplo- 
matic reserve and slyness had often stood him 
in stead in the small strategy of life, and here, 
how skillfully had he not managed his visits to 
Penruthyn, and hid from the peering eyes of 


Cardyllian his walks and loiterings about the 
enchanted woods of Malory. 

Visiting good Mrs. Jones’s shop next day, to 
ask her how she did, and gossip a little across 
the counter, that lady peering over her specta- 
cles, received him with a particularly sly smile, 
which, being prone to alarms just then, he noted 
and did not like. 

Confidential and voluble as usual, was this 
lady, bringing her black lace cap and purple 
ribbons close to the brim of Mr. Verney ’s hat, 
as she leaned over the counter, and murmured 
her emphatic intelligence and surmises deliber- 
ately in his ear. She came at last to say — 

“You must be very so/itary, we all think, 
over thei'e, at Ware, sir ; and though you have 
your yacht to sail across in, and your dog-cart 
to trot along, and doesn’t much mind, still it is 
not covLvenient, you know, for one that likes this 
side so much better than the other. We think, 
and wonders, we all do, you wouldn’t stay 
awhile at the Verney Arms, over the way, and 
remain among us, you know, and be near every 
thing you might like ; the other side, you know, 
is very dull ; we can’t deny that, though it’s 
quite true that Ware is a very fine place — a really 
^eawtiful place — but it is lonely, we must allow ; 
mustn^t we ?” 

“Awfully lonely,” acquiesced Cleve, “ but I 
don’t quite see why I should live at the Verney 
Arms, notwithstanding.” 

“Well, they do say — ^j'ou mustn’t be angry 
with them, you know — but they do, that 3 'ou 
like a walk to Malory,” and this was accom- 
panied with a wonderfully cunning look, and a 
curious play of the crow’s-feet and wrinkles of 
her fat face, and a sly, gentle laugh. “But I 
don’t mind.” 

“Don’t mind what?" asked Cleve, a little 
sharply. 

“ Well, I don’t mind what they say, but they 
do say you have made acquaintance with the 
Malory family — no harm in that, you know, ” 

“No harm in the world, only a lie,” said 
Cleve, with a laugh that was not quite enjoying. 
“ I wish they would manage that introduction 
for me ; I should like it extremely. I think the 
young lady rather pretty — don’t you? and I 
should not object to pay my respects, if joii 
think it would not be odd. My Cardyllian 
friends know so much better than I what is the 
right thing to do. That fact is, I don’t know 
one of our own tenants there, except for taking 
off my hat twice to the only sane one of the 
party, that old Miss Anne — Anne — something — 
3 "Ou told me — ” 

Sheckleton that will he," supplemented Mrs. 
Jones. 

“ Sheckleton. Very well ; and my real dif- 
ficulty is this — and upon my honor, I don’t know 
how to manage it. My grandmother. Lady 
Verney, puts me under orders — and j^ou know 
she does not like to bo disobeyed — to go and 
see poor old Rebecca, Mrs. Mervyn, you know, 
at the steward’s house, at Malory; and I am 
looking for a moment when these people are out 


52 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


of the way, just to run in for five minutes, and 
ask her liow she does. And my friend, Wynne 
Williams, won’t let me tell Lady Yerney how 
odd these people are, he’s so afraid of her hear- 
ing the rumor of their being mad. But the 
fact is, whenever I go up there and peep in 
through the trees, I see some of them about the 
front of the house, and I can’t go up to the door, 
of course, without annoying them, for they wish 
to be quite shut up ; and the end of it is, I say, 
that, among them, I shall get blown up by Lady 
Yerney, and shan't know what to answ'er — by 
Jove ! But you may tell my friends in Cardyl- 
lian, I am so much obliged to them for giving 
me credit for more cleverness than they have 
had in effecting an introduction ; and talking of 
me about that pretty girl. Miss — oh! — what’s 
her name ? — at Malory. I only hope she’s not 
mad ; for if she is, I must be also.” 

Mrs. Jones listened and looked at him more 
gravely, for his story hung pretty w^ell together, 
and something of its cunning died out of the 
expression of her broad face. But Cleve walked 
away a little disconcerted, and by no means in 
a pleasant temper wdth his good neighbors of 
Cardyllian ; and made that day a long visit at 
Hazelden, taking care fo make his approaches 
as ostentatiously as he could. And he w'as 
seen for an hour in the evening, wMking on the 
green with the young ladies of that house. Miss 
Charity flanking the little line of march on one 
side, and he the other, pretty Miss Agnes, of 
the golden locks, the pretty dimples, and bril- 
liant tints, walking between, and listening, I’m 
afraid, more to the unphilosophic prattle of 
young Mr. Yerney, than to the sage conversa- 
tion, and even admonitions and reminders of 
her kind, but unexceptionable sister. 

From the news-room windows, from the great 
bow-window of the billiard-room, this prome- 
nade W’as visible. It was a judicious demon- 
stration, and gave a new twdst to conjecture; 
and listless gentlemen who chronicled and dis- 
cussed such matters, observed upon it, each ac- 
cording to his modicum of eloquence and wds- 
dom. 

Old Yane Etherage, whose temperament, 
though squally, was placable, w’as w^on by the 
frank courtesy and adroit flatteries of the art- 
less young fellow who had canvassed boroughs 
and counties, and was master of a psychology 
of w'hich honest old Etherage knew nothing. 

That night, notwithstanding, Cleve w’as at the 
gate of Malory, and the tw'o ladies were there. 

“ We have been looking at the boat ten min- 
utes, just, since it left. Sir Booth is out as usu- 
al, and now see how far away ; you can scarce- 
ly see the sail, and yet so little breeze.” 

‘ ‘ The breeze is rather from the shore, and 
you are sheltered here, all this old wood, you 
know. But you can hear it a little in the tops 
of the trees,” Cleve answered, caring very little 
wdiat W’ay the breeze might blow, and yet glad 
to know that Sir Booth was on his cruise, and 
quite out of the w^ay for more than an hour to 
come. 


‘‘We intended venturing out as far as the pier, 
there to enjoy once more that beautiful moon- 
light view, but Sir Booth W’ent out to-night by 
the little door down there, and this has been 
left wdth its padlock on. So w'e must only treat 
this little recess as the convent parlor, with the 
grating here, at which we parley with our 
friends. Do you hear that foolish old dog 
again ! I really believe he has got out of the 
yard,” suddenly exclaimed good-natured Miss 
Anne, who made the irregularities of old Nep- 
tune an excuse for trifling absences very pre- 
cious to Cleve Yerney. 

So now, she walked some ten or twenty steps 
toward the house, and stood there looking up 
the avenue, and prattling incessantly, though 
Cleve could not hear a word she said, ex- 
cept now and then the name of “Neptune,” 
when she ineffectually accosted that remote of- 
fender. 

“You have not said a word. Miss Eanshawe ; 
you are not offended with me, I hope,” he mur- 
mured. 

“Oh, no.” 

“ You have not shaken hands,” he continued, 
and he put his hand between the bars, “won’t 
you ?” 

So she placed hers in his. 

“And now, can you tell me nothing?” 

“ I’ve been thinking that I may as w^ell speak 
now,” she said, in very low tones. “There 
must be uncertainty, I believe, in all things, and 
faith in those who love us, and trust that all 
may end in good; and so, hlindly — almost 
blindly — I say, yes, if you will promise me — 
oh ! promise, that you will always love me, as 
you do now, and never change. If you love me, 
I shall love you, always ; and if you change, I 
shall die. Oh ! W’on’t you promise ?” 

Poor fluttering heart ! The bird that prunes 
its wing for the untried flight over the sea, in 
which to tire is to die, lonely, in the cold waste, 
may feel "within its little breast the instinct of 
that irrevocable venture, the irresistible im- 
pulse, the far-off hope, the present fear and dan- 
ger, as she did. 

Promises ! What are they ? Who can an- 
swer for the follies of the heart, and the muta- 
tions of time ? We know what we are ; we 
know what we may be. Idlest of all idle words 
•are these promises for the affections, for the 
raptures and illusions, utterly mortal, whose du- 
ration God has placed quite beyond our control. 
Kill them, indeed, we may, but add one hour 
to their uncertain lives, never. 

Poor , trembling heart! “Promise never to 
change. Oh ! won’t you promise ?” Promises 
spoken to the air, written in dust — ^}"et a word, 
a look, like a blessing or a hope — ever so illu- 
sive, before the wing is spread, and the long and 
untried journey begins ! 

What Cleve Yerney swore, and all the music 
he poured into those little listening ears in that 
enchanting hour, I know not. 

Miss Anne Sheckleton came back. Through 
the convent bars Cleve took her hand, in a kind 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


53 


of agitation, a kind of tumnlt, with rapture in 
his handsome face, and just said, “She has 
told me, she and Miss Sheckleton said 

nothing, but put her arms round Margaret’s 
neck, and kissed her many times, and holding 
her hand, looked up smiling, and took Cleve’s 
also, and in the old spinster's eyes were glitter- 
ing those diamond tears, so pure and unselfish 
that, when we see them, we think of those that 
angels are said to weep over the sorrows and 
the vanities of human life. 

Swiftly flew the hour, and not’ till the sail 
w’as nearing the shore, and the voices of the 
boatmen were audible across the w'ater, did the 
good old lady insist on a final farewell, and 
Cleve glided away, under the shadow of the 
trees that overhang the road, and disappeared 
round the distant angle of the wall of Malory. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

CAPTAIN SIIRAPNTJLL. 

The next afternoon Miss Charity Etherage 
and her sister Agnes were joined in their ac- 
customed walk upon the green of Cardyllian by 
Captain Shrapnell, a jaunty half-pay officer of 
five-and-fifty, who represented to his own satis- 
faction the resident youth and fashion of that 
quiet watering-place. 

“ I give you my honor. Miss Etherage,” said 
he, placing himself beside Miss Agnes, “ I mis- 
took you yesterday for Lady Fanny Mersey. 
Charming person she is, and I need not say, 
perfectly lovely.” A little arch bow gave its 
proper point to the compliment. “ She has 
gone, however, I understand, left Lluinan yes- 
terday. Is that young Verney’s boat? No, 
oh ! no — nothing like so sharp. He’s a very 
nice fellow, young Verney.” 

This was put rather interrogatively, and Miss 
Agnes, thinking that she had blushed a little, 
blushed more, to her inexpressible chagrin, for 
she knew that Captain Shrapnell was W'atching 
her with the interest of a gossip. 

“Nice? I dare say. But I really know 
him so very slightly,” said Miss Agnes. 

“ Come, come ; that won’t do,” said the Cap- 
tain, very archly. “ You forget that I was sit- 
ting in our club window yesterday evening, 
when a certain party were Avalking up and down. 
Ha, ha, you do. We’re tolerably clear-sighted 
up there, and old Rogers keeps our windows 
rubbed ; and the glass is quite brilliantly trans- 
parent, ha, ha, ha ! hey ?” 

“I think your windows are made of multi- 
plying glasses, and magnifying glasses, and 
every kind of glass that distorts and discolors,” 
said Miss Agnes, a little pettishly. “I don’t 
know how else it is that you all see such won- 
derful sights as you do, through them.” 

“Well, they cfo, certainly. Some of our 
friends do color a little,” said the Captain, with 
a waggish yet friendly grin, up at the great bow 
window. “ But in this case, you’ll allow there 
was no great opportunity for color, the tints of 


nature are so beautiful,” and Shrapnell fired off 
this little saying, with his bow and smile of fas- 
cination. “Nor, by Jove, for the multiplying 
glasses either, for more than three in that party 
would have quite spoiled it; now icouldn't it, 
hey? ha, ha, ha! The two principals, and a 
gooseberry, eh ? Ha, ha, ha !” 

“ Whatisar/ooseierry inquired Miss Char- 
ity, peremptorily. 

“A delightful object in the garden, Miss 
Etherage, a delightful object everywhere. The 
delight of the young especially, hey. Miss Ag- 
nes ? ha, ha I hey ? and one of the sweetest 
products of nature. Eh, Miss Agnes, ha, ha, 
ha ! Miss Etherage, I give you my honor 
every word I say is true.” 

“I do declare. Captain Shrapnell, it seems 
to me you have goxiQ perfectly mad!'' said Miss 
Charity, who was outspoken and emphatic. 

“Always a mad fellow. Miss Etherage, ha, 
ha, ha! Very true; that’s my character, hey ? 
ha, ha, ha, egad! So the ladies tell me,” said 
the gay young captain. “ Wish I had a guinea 
for every time they’ve called me mad, among 
them. I give 5mu my honor I’d be a rich fellow 
this moment.” 

“ Now, Captain Shrapnell,” said Miss Chari- 
ty, with a frank stare with her honest goggle 
eyes, “you are talking the greatest nonsense I 
ever heard in my life.” 

“ Miss Agnes, here, does not think so, hey ?” 
giggled the captain. “Now, come, Miss Ag- 
nes, what do you think of young Verney, hey ? 
There’s a question.” 

How Miss Agnes hated the gibing, giggling 
wretch, and detested the club of whose prattle 
and gossip he was the inexhaustible spokesman ; 
and would at that moment have hailed the ap- 
pearance of a ship-of-war with her broadside di- 
rected upon the bow window of that haunt, with 
just, of course, such notice to her worthy father, 
whose gray head was visible in it, as was ac- 
corded to the righteous Lot — under orders, with 
shot, shell, rockets, and marlin-spikes, to blow 
the entire concern into impalpable dust. 

It must be allowed that Miss Agnes was un- 
just ; that it would not have been fair to visit 
upon the harmless and, on the whole, good-na- 
tured persons who congregated in that lively re- 
ceptacle, and read the Times through their spec- 
tacles there, the waggeries and exaggerations of 
the agreeable captain, and to have readied that 
incorrigible offender, and demolished his strong- 
hold at so great a waste of human life. 

“Come, now; I w'on’t let you off. Miss Ag- 
gie. I say, there's a question. What do you 
say? Come, now, you really must tell us. 
What do you think of young Verney ?” 

“If you wish to know what 1 think,” inter- 
posed Miss Charity, “ I think he’s the very nicest 
man I ever spoke too. He’s so nice about relig- 
ion. Wasn’t he, Aggie ?” 

Here the Captain exploded. 

“Religion ! egad— flo you really mean to tell 
me — ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that’s the 
richest thing ! — now really !" 


54 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


‘‘ My goodness ! How friglitfiilly wicked you 
are,” exclaimed Miss Charity. 

“ True bill, egad ; upon my soul, I’m afraid 
— ha, ha, ha !” 

“Now, Captain Shrapnel), you shall not walk 
with us, if you swear,” said Miss Charity. 

“ Siveai' I I didn’t swear, did I ? Very sorry 
if I did, upon my — I give you my 'word,” said 
the Captain politely. 

“Yes, you did; and it’s extremely wiched,'^ 
said Miss Charity. 

“Well, I won’t; I swear to you, I won’t;” 
vowed the captain, a little inconsistently ; “ but 
now about Master Cleve Verney, Miss Agnes. 
I said I would not let you off, and I won’t. I 
give you my honor, you shall say what you think 
of him, or, by Jove ! — I conclude you can’t trust 
yourself on the subject, ha, ha, ha I Hey ?” 

“You are mad, Captain Shrapnell,” inter- 
posed Miss Charity, with weight. 

“ I can’t say, really, I’ve formed any particu- 
lar opinion. I think he is rather agreeable,” 
answered Miss Agnes, under this pressure. 

“Well, so do /,” acquiesced the captain. 
“ Master Cleve can certainly be agreeable where 
he chooses, and you think him devilish good- 
looking — don’t you ?” 

“I really can’t say — he has very good fea- 
tures — but — ” 

“But what? Why every one allows that 
Ycrney’s as good-looking a fellow as you’ll 
meet with anywhere, ’’persisted the captain. 

“/ think him /perfectly ^>e-a^^tiful !’ said Miss 
Charity, who never liked people by halves. 

“ Well — yes — he may be handsome,” said 
Miss Agnes ; ‘ ‘ I’m no very great critic ; but 
I can’t conceive any girl falling in love with 
him.” 

“Oh! as to that — but — ivhyV' said Captain 
Shrapnell. 

“His face, I think, is so selfish — somehow,” 
she said. 

“Is it now, really? — howV' asked the ca 2 > 
tain. 

‘ ‘ I’m am~azed at you ! ” exclaimed Miss Char- 
ity. 

“ Well, there’s a selfish hook — no, not a hook, 
a cw've — of his nose, and a cruel crook of his 
shoulder,” said Miss Agnes, in search of his 
faults. 

“You’re determined to hit him by hook or 
by crook — ha, ha, ha — I say, ” pursued the cap- 
tain. 

“A/ioo/c.'” exclaimed Miss Charity, almost 
angrily; “there’s no hook! — I wonder at you 
— I really think sometimes, Agnes, you’re the 
greatest /oo/ 1 ever met in the whole course of 
my life !” 

“Well, I can’t help thinking what I think,” 
said Agnes. 

‘ ‘ But you donH think that — you know you 
don’t — you cai-Ct think it,” decided her elder sis- 
ter. 

“ No more she does,” urged the captain, with 
his teasing giggle ; “ she doesn't think it ; you 
always know when a girl abuses a man, she 


likes him — she does — by J ove — and I venture to 
say she thinks Master Cleve one of the very 
handsomest and most fascinating fellows she 
ever beheld,” said the agreeable captain. 

“I really think what I said,” replied Agnes, 
and her pretty face showed a brilliant color, and 
her eyes had a handsome fire in them, for she 
was vexed ; “ though it is natural to think in a 
place like this, where all the men are more or 
less old and ugly, that any young man, even tol- 
erably good-looking, should be thought a won- 
der.” 

“Ha, ha, ha! very good, ’’said the captain, 
plucking out his whisker a little, and twiddling 
his mustache, and glancing down at his easy 
waistcoat, and perhaps ever so little put out ; 
but he also saw over his shoulder Cleve cross- 
ing the green toward them from the Jetty, and 
not perhaps being quite on terms to call him 
“ Master Cleve” to his face, he mentioned a 
promise to meet young Owen of Henlwyd in the 
billiard-room for a great game of pyramid, and 
so took off his hat gracefully to the ladies, and, 
smirking, and nodding, and switching his cane, 
swaggered swiftly away toward the point of ren- 
dezvous. 

So Cleve arrived, and joined the young la- 
dies, and w’alked beside Agnes, chatting upon 
all sorts of subjects, and bearing some occasion- 
al reproofs and protests from Miss Charity with 
great submission and gayety, and when Miss 
Charity caught a glimpse of the “Admiral’s” 
bath-chair, with that used-up officer in it, en 
route for the Hazelden road, and already near 
the bridge, slie plucked her watch from her 
belt, with a slight pallor in her cheek, and “ de- 
clared" she had not an idea how late it was. 
Cleve Verney accompanied the ladies all the 
way to Hazelden, and even went in, when bid- 
den, and drank a cup of tea, at their early meal, 
and obeyed also a summons to visit the “Ad- 
miral” in his study. 

“Very glad to see you, sir — very happy, 
Mr. Verney,” said Mr. Vane Etherage, with his 
fez upon his head, and lowering his pipe with 
the gravity of a Turk. “I wish you would 
come and dine at three o’clock — the true hour 
for dinner, sir — I’ve tried every hour, in my 
time, from twelve to half-past eight — at three 
o’clock, sir, some day — any day — to-morrow. 
The Welsh mutton is the best on earth, and the 
Hazelden mutton is the best in Wales !” The 
“Admiral” always looked in the face of the per- 
son whom he harangued, with an expression of 
cool astonishment, which somehow aided the 
pomp vpf his delivery. “ An unfortunate differ- 
ence, Mr. Verney---a dispute, sir — has arisen be- 
tween me and your uncle ; but that, Mr. Ver- 
ney, need not extend to his nephew ; no, sir, it 
need not; no need it should. Shall we say to- 
morrow, Mr. Verney ?” 

I forget what excuse IMr. Verney made ; it 
was sufficient, however, and he was quite una- 
ble to name an immediate day, but lived in 
hope. So having won golden opinions, he took 
his leave. And the good peojffe of CardylliaUj 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


55 


who make matches easily, began to give Mr. 
Cleve Verney to pretty Miss Agnes Etherage. 

While this marrying and giving in marriage 
was going on over many tea-tables, that evening, 
in Cardy Ilian, Mr. Cleve Verney, the hero of 
this new romance, had got ashore a little below 
Malory, and at nightfall walked down the old 
road by Llanderris Church, and so round the 
path that skirts the woods of Malory, and down 
upon the shore that winds before the front of the 
old house. 

As he came in full sight of the shore, on a 
sudden, within little more than a hundred paces 
away, he saw, standing solitary upon the shin- 
gle, a tall man, with a tweed rug across his arm, 
awaiting a boat which was slowly approaching 
in the distance. 

In this tall figure he had no difficulty in rec- 
ognizing Sir Booth Fanshawe, whom he had 
confronted in other, and very different scenes, 
and who had passed so near him, in the avenue 
at Malory. 

With one of those sudden and irresistible 
impulses, which, as they fail or succeed, are 
classed as freaks of madness, or inspirations of 
genius, he resolved to walk up to Sir Booth, 
and speak to him upon the subject then so near 
to his heart. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SIR BOOTH SPEAKS. 

The idea, perhaps, that sustained Cleve Ver- 
ney in this move, was the sudden recurrence of 
his belief that Sir Booth would so clearly see 
the advantages of such a connection as to forget 
his resentments. 

Sir Booth was looking seaward, smoking a 
cigar, and watching the approach of the boat, 
which was still distant. As Cleve drew near, 
he saw Sir Booth eye him, he fancied, uneasily ; 
and throwing back his hea(J^a little, and with- 
drawing his cheroot ever so little from his lips, 
the Baronet demanded grimly — 

“Wish to speak to 7«e, sir?” 

“Only a word, if you allow me,” answered 
Cleve approaching. 

On ascertaining that he had to deal with a 
gentleman. Sir Booth was confident once more. 

“ Well, sir, I hear you,” said he. 

“ You don’t recognize me. Sir Booth ; and I 
fear when I introduce myself, you will hardly 
connect my name with any thing pleasant or 
friendly. I only ask a patient hearing, and I 
am sure your own sense of fairness will excuse 
me personally.” 

“Before you say more, sir, I should like to 
know for whom you take me, and why ; I don’t 
recollect you^ I think — I can’t sec very well — no 
one does, in this sort of light ; but I rather 
think, I never saw your face before, sir — nor you 
mine, I dare say— your guesses ns to who I am, 
may be any thing you please — and quite mis- 
•taken — and this is not a usual time, you know, 
for talking with strangers about business — and, 


in fact, I’ve come here for quiet and my health, 
and I can’t undertake to discuss other peojde’s 
affairs — I find my own as much as my health 
and leisure will allow me to attend to.” 

“ Sir Booth Fanshawe, you must excuse me 
for saying I know you perfectly. I am also 
well aware that you seek a little repose and 
privacy here, and you may rely implicitly upon 
my mentioning your name to no one ; in fact, 

I have been for some weeks aware of your re- 
siding at Malory, and never have mentioned it 
to any one.” 

“ Ha ! you’re very kind, indeed — taking great 
care of me, sir; you are very obliging,” said 
Sir Booth sarcastically, ‘ ‘ I’m sure ; ha, ha ! I 
ought to be very grateful. And to whom, may 
I ask, do I owe all this attention to my — my 
interests and comforts ?” 

“I am connected. Sir Booth, with a house 
that has unfortunately been a good deal opposed, 
in politics, to yours. There arq reasons which 
make this particularly painful to me, although 
I have been by the direction of others, whom I 
had no choice but to obey, more in evidence in 
these miserable contests than I could wish ; I’ve 
really been little more than a passive instrument 
in the hands of others, absolutely without power, 
or even influence of my own in the matter. 
You don’t recognize me, but you have seen me 
elsewhere. My name is Cleve Verney.” 

Sir Booth had not expected this nanie, as his 
countenance showed. With a kind of jerk, he 
removed his cigar from his lips, sending a shower 
of red sparks away on the breeze, and gazing on 
the young man with eyes like balls of stone, 
ready to leap from their sockets. I dare say he was 
very near exploding in that sort of language 
which, on occasion, he did not spare. But he 
controlled himself, and said merely, clearing his 
voice first — 

“ That will do, sir, the name’s enough ; I 
can’t be supposed to wish to converse with any 
one of that name, sir — no more I do.” 

“ What I have to say. Sir Booth, affects you, 
it interests you very nearly," answered Cleve. 

“But, sir, I am going out in that boat — I 
wish to smoke my cigar — I’ve come down here 
to live to mj’-self, and to be alone when I choose 
it,” said Sir Booth with suppressed exasper- 
ation. 

“ One v/ord, I beg — ^you’ll not regret it. Sir 
Booth,” pleaded Cleve. 

“ Well, sir — come — I will hear it ; but I tell 
you beforehand, I have pretty strong views as to 
how I have been used, and it is not likely to 
lead to much,” said Sir Booth, with one of 
those sudden changes of purpose to which fiery 
men are liable. 

So, as briefly and as persuasively as he could, 
Cleve Verney disclosed his own feelings, giving 
to the date of his attachment skillfully a retro- 
spective character, and guarding the ladies ^of 
Malory from the unreasonable temper of this vio- 
lent old man ; and, in fact, from Cleve’s state-^ 
ment you would have gathered that he was not 
even conscious that the ladies were now residing 


THE TENANTS OE MALOEY. 


5G 


at Malory. He closed his little confession with 
a formal proposal. 

Was there something — ever so little — in the 
tone of this latter part of his brief speech, that 
reflected something of the confidence to which 
I have alluded, and stung the angry pride of this 
ruined man ? He kept smoking his cigar a little 
faster, and looking steadily at the distant boat 
that was slowly approaching against the tide. 

When Cleve concluded, the old man lowered 
his cigar and laughed shortly and scornfully. 

“You do us a great deal of honor, Mr. Ver- 
ney — too much honor, by — ,” scoffed the Bar- 
onet. “ Be so good at all events as to answer 
me this one question frankly — yes or no. Is 
your uncle, Ki%n Verney, aware of your speak- 
ing to me on this subject?” 

“ Ao, Sir Booth, he is not,” said Cleve ; “ he 
knows nothing of it. I ought, perhaps, to have 
mentioned that at first.” 

“ So you ought,” said Sir Booth brusquely. 

“ And I beg that you won’t mention the sub- 
ject to him.” 

“You may be very sure I shan’t, sir,” said 
the Baronet fiercely. “ Why, d — n it, sir, 
what do you mean ? Do you know what you’re 
saying ? You come here, and you make a pro- 
posal for my daughter, and you think I should 
be so charmed that rather than risk your alli- 
ance I should practice any meanness you think 
fit. D — n you, sir, how dare you suppose I 
could fancy your aspiring to my daughter a 
thing to hide like a mesalliance?^' 

“Nothing of the kind. Sir Booth.” 

“ Every thing of the kind, sir. Do you know 
who you are, sir ? You have not a farthing on 
earth, sir, but what you get from your uncle.” 

“ I beg your pardon — allow me. Sir Booth — 
I’ve six hundred a year of my own. I know it’s 
very little ; but I’ve been thought to have some 
energies ; I know I have some friends. I have 
still my seat in the House, and this Parliament 
may last two or three years. It is quite pos- 
sible that I may quarrel with my uncle ; I can’t 
help it ; I’m quite willing to take my chance of 
that ; and I entreat. Sir Booth, that you won’t 
make this a matter of personal feeling, and at- 
tribute to me the least sympathy with the mis- 
erable doings of my uncle.” 

Sir Booth listened to him, looking over the 
sea as before, as if simply observing the approach 
of the boat, but he spoke this time in a mitigated 
tone. 

“ You’re no young man,” said he, “ if you 
don’t owe money. I never knew one with a 
rich old fellow at his back who didn’t.” 

He paused, and Cleve looked down. 

“In fact, you don’t know how much you 
owe. If you were called on to book up, d’ye 
see, there might remain very little to show for 
jmur six hundred a year. You’re just your 
uncle’s nephew, sir, and nothing more. When 
you quarrel with him you’re a rained man.” 

0 “I don’t see that — ” began Cleve. 

“But I do. If he quarrels with you, he’ll 
never rest till he ruins you. That’s his char- 


acter. It might be very different if you had a 
gentleman to deal with ; but you must look the 
thing in the face. You may never succeed to 
the title. We old fellows have our palsies and 
apoplexies ; and you young fellows, your fevers 
and inflammations. Here you are quite well, 
and a fever comes, and turns you off like a gas- 
light the day after ; and besides if you quarrel 
he’ll marry, and where are you then ? And I 
tell you frankly if Mr. Kiffyn Verney has ob-' 
jections to me, I’ve stronger to him. There’s 
no brother of mine disgraced. Why, his elder 
brother — it’s contamination to a gentleman to 
name him.” 

“He’s dead, sir; Arthur Verney is dead,” 
said Cleve, who was more patient under Sir 
Booth’s bitter language than under any other 
circumstances he would have been. 

“ Oh ? Well, that does not very much mat- 
ter,” said Sir Booth. “But this is the upshot; 
I’ll have nothing underhand — all above-board, 
sir — and if Mr. Kiffyn Verney writes a proper 
apology — by — he owes me one — and puts a stop 
to the fiendish persecutions he has been direct- 
ing against me, and himself submits the pro- 
' posal you have — yes — done me the honor to 
make, and undertakes to make suitable settle- 
I ments, I shan’t stand in the way ; I shan’t ob- 
' ject to your speaking to my daughter, though I 
; can’t the least tell how she’ll take it ; ^nd I tell 
' you from myself I don’t like it — I don't, by — , I 
! don’t like it. He’s a bad fellow — a nasty dog, 

' sir, as any in England — but that's what I say, 
sir, and I shan’t alter ; and you’ll please never 
to mention the subject to me again except on 
! these conditions : except from him I decline to 
\hear of it — not a word — and — and, sir, you’ll 
please to regard my name as a secret ; it has 
been hitherto ; my liberty depends on it. Your 
j uncle can’t possibly know I’m here?” he added 
I sharply. 

j “When last I saw him — a very short time 
; since — he though t^mu were in Prance. You, 

; of course, rely upon my honor. Sir Booth, that 
no one living shall hear from me one syllable 
' afiecting your safety.” 

“Very good, sir. I never supposed you 
would ; but I mean every one — these boatmen, 
and the people here. No one is to know who 
I am ; and — and what I’ve said is my ultima- 
tum, sir. And I’ll have no correspondence, sir 
— no attempt to visit anywhere. You under- 
stand. By — if you do. I’ll let your uncle, 
Mr. Kiffyn Verney, know the moment I learn 
it. Be so good as to leave me.” 

“Good-night, sir,” said Cleve. 

Sir Booth nodded slightly. 

The^^tall old man went stalking and stum- 
i bling over the shingle, toward the water’s edge, 

■ still watching the boat, his cigar making a red 
star in the dusk, by which Christmas Owen 
’ might have steered ; and the boatmen that 
I night heard their mysterious steersman from 
! Malory, as he sat with his hand on the tiller, 
talking more than usual to himself, now and 
: then d — ing unknown persons, and backing his 


THE TENANTS OF-MALORY. 


57 


desultory babble to the waves, with oaths that 
startled those sober-tongued dissenters. 

Cleve walked slowly up that wide belt of 
rounded gray stones, that have rattled and roll- 
ed, perhaps, for centuries there, in every return- 
ing and retreating tide, and turned at last and 
looked toward the tall, stately figure of the old 
man now taking his place in the boat. Stand- 
ing in the shadow, he watched it receding as the 
moonlight came out over the landscape. His 
thoughts began to clear, and he was able to es- 
timate, according to his own gauges and rash- 
ness, the value and effect of his interview with 
the angry and embitttered old man. 

He wondered at the patience with which he 
had borne this old man’s impertinence — unpar- 
alleled impertinence ; yet even now he could 
not resent it. He was the father of that beau- 
tiful Margaret. The interview was a mistake — 
a very mortifying ordeal it had proved — and its 
result was to block his path with new difiScul- 
ties. 

Not to approach except through the media- 
tion of his Uncle Kiffyn! He should like to see 
how his uncle would receive a proposal to medi- 
ate in this matter. Not to visit — not to write 
— neither to see nor to hear of her ! Submis- 
sion to such conditions was not to be dreamed 
of. He trampled on them, and defied all con- 
sequences. 

Cleve stood on the gray shingle looking aft- 
er the boat, now running swiftly with the tide. 
A patch of sea-weed like an outstretched hand 
lay at his feet, and in the fitful breeze lifted a 
warning finger, again, and again, and again. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MARGARET HAS HER WARNING. 

Next evening, I believe, Cleve saw Margaret 
Fanshawe, by favor of that kindest of chaperons. 
Miss Anne Sheckleton, at the spot where by 
chance they had met before — at the low bank 
that fences the wood of Malory, near the steep 
road that descends by the old church of Llan- 
derris. 

Here, in the clear glow of sunset, they met 
and talked under the old trees, and the good old 
spinster, with her spectacles on, worked at her 
crochet industriously, and often peered over it 
this way and that, it must be confessed, nerv- 
ously, and with a prudence with which Cleve 
would gladly have dispensed, she hurried this 
hazardous meeting to a close. 

Not ten minutes later Margaret Fanshawe 
stood alone at the old refectory window, which 
commands through the parting trees a view of 
the sea and the distant headland, now filmed in 
the aerial light and blush of sunset. I should 
not wonder if she had been drawn thither by 
the fanciful hope of seeing the passing sail of 
Cleve Verney’s yacht — every sign and relic 
grows so interesting. Now is with them the sea- 
son of all such things ; romance has sent forth 


her angels ; the woods, the clouds, the sea, the 
hills, are filled with them. Then is the play of 
fancy and the yearning of the heart — and the 
aching comes in its time. 

Something sadder and gentler in the face 
than ever before. Undine has received a soul, 
and is changed. The boat has passed, and to 
catch the last glimpse of its white wing she 
crosses to the other side of the window, and 
stretches, with a long, strange gaze, till it has 
gone — quite gone — and every thing on a sudden 
is darker. 

With her hand still on the worn stone shaft 
of the window, she leans and looks, in a dream, 
till the last faint tint of sunset dies on the gray 
mountain, and twilight is everywhere. So with 
a sigh, a vague trouble, and yet a wondrous 
happiness at her heart, she turns to leave the 
stone-floCred chamber, and at the head of the 
steps that lead down from its door she is startled. 

The pale old woman, with large, earnest eyes, 
was at the foot of this stone stair, with her head 
on the rude banister. It seemed to Margaret 
as if she had been waiting for her. Her great 
vague eyes were looking into hers as she ap- 
peared at the door. 

Margaret arrested her step, and a little frown 
of fear for a moment curved her eyebrows. She 
did fear this old Rebecca Mervyn with an odd 
apprehension that she had something unpleasant 
to say to her. 

“ I’m coming up to you,” said the old woman 
sadly, still looking at her as she ascended the 
steps. 

Margaret’s heart misgave her, but somehow 
she had not nerve to evade the interview, or 
rather, she had felt that it was coming and 
wished it over. 

Once or twice in passing, the old woman had 
seemed to hesitate, as if about to speak to her, 
but had changed her mind and passed on . Only 
the evening before, just at the hour when the 
last ray of the sun comes from the west, and all 
the birds are singing their last notes, as she was 
tying up some roses, on the short terrace round 
the corner of the old mansion, she turned and 
raised her eyes, and in the window of the old 
building called the “ Steward’s House,” the lat- 
tice being open, she saw, looking steadfastly 
upon her, from the shadows within, the pale 
face of this old woman. In its expression there 
was something ominous, and when she saw 
Margaret looking straight at her, she* did not' 
turn away, but looked on sadly, as unmoved as 
a picture, till Margaret, disconcerted, lowered 
her eyes, and went away. 

As this old woman ascended the stairs, Mar- 
garet crossed the floor to the window — light is 
always reassuring — and leaning at its side, 
looked back, and saw Rebecca Mervyn already 
within the spacious chamber, and drawing near 
slowly from the shadow. 

“You wish to speak to me, Mrs. Mervyn?” 
said the young lady, who knew her name, al- 
though now for the first time she spoke to her. 

“Only a word. Ah! — yes — you arc — very 


58 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


beautiful,” she said, with a deep sigh, as she 
stood looking at her, with a strange sadness and 
compassion in her gaze, that partook of the 
past, and the prophetic. 

A little blush — a little smile — a momentary 
gleam of that light of triumph, in beauty so 
beautiful — showed that the fair apparition was 
mortal. 

‘‘Beauty — ah! — yes! If were not here 
neither would they. Miss Margaret ! — poor 
thing ! I’ve seen him. I knew him, although 
it is a great many years,” said old Rebecca. 
“The moment my eyes touched him, I knew 
him ; there is something about them all, pe- 
culiar — the Yerneys, I mean — I should know a 
Verney anywhere, in any crowd, in an}^ dis- 
guise. I’ve dreamed of him, and thought of him, 
and watched for him, for — how many years? 
God help me, I forget ! since I was ag young as 
you are. Cleve Verney is handsome, but there 
were others, long before — oh ! ever so much 
more beautiful. The Verney features — ah ! — 
yes —• thinking always, dreaming, watching, 
burnt into my brain ; they have all some points 
alike. I knew Cleve by that ; he is more like 
that than to his younger self ; a handsome boy 
he Avas — but, I beg pardon, it is so hard to keep 
thoughts from Avandering.” 

This old Avoman, from long solitude, I sup- 
pose, talked to others as if she Avere talking to 
herself, and rambled on, flightily and vaguely. 
But on a sudden she laid her hand upon Mar- 
garet’s Avrist, and closing it gently, held her 
thns, and looked in her face Avith great concern. 

“ Why docs he come so stealthily ? death 
comes so, to the young and beautiful. My poor 
sister died in Naples. No one kncAv there Avas 
danger the day before she Avas sent aAvay there, 
despaired of. Well may I say the angel of 
death — ^beautiful, insidious — that’s the AA^ay 
they come — stealthily, mysterious — Avhen I saAv 
his handsome face about here — I shuddered — 
in the tAAulight — in the dark.” 

Margaret’s cheek flushed, and she plucked her 
Avrist to disengage it from the old AA^oman’s 
hand. 

“ You had better speak to my cousin. Miss 
Sheckleton. It is she Avho receiA^es Mr. Verney 
Avhen he comes. She has knoAAm him longer 
than I ; at least made his acquaintance earlier,” 
said the young lad3\ “I don’t, I confess, un- 
derstand Avhat you mean. I’A^e been trying, 
and I can’t ; perhaps she Avill.” 

“ I must say this ; it is on my mind,” said 
the old Avoman, Avithout letting her hand go. 
“There is something horrible in the future. 
You do not knoAv the Verneys. They are a 
cruel race. It Avould be better to suffer an evil 
spirit into the house. Poor young lady ! To 
be another innocent victim — break it off — expel 
him ! Shut out, if you can, his face from your 
thoughts and your memory. It is one who 
knows them Avell Avho Avarns you. It Avill not 
come to good.” 

In the A’ague Avarning of this old A\mman, 
there Avas an echo of an indefinite fear that had 


lain at her own heart for days. Neither, apart, 
Avas any thing ; but one seconding the other was 
ominous and depressing. 

“Let me go, please,” she said, a little brusque- 
ly, “ it is groAving dark, and I must go in. I’m 
sure, however, you mean Avhat you say kindly, 
and I thank you for the intention, thank you, 
very much.” 

“ Yes — go — I shall stay here ; from here one 
can see across to Pendillion, and the sea there ; 
it AA'ill come again, I knoAV it Avill, some day or 
night. My old eyes are Aveary Avith Avatching. 
I should knoAV the sail again, although it is a 
long, long time — P a^c lost count of the years.” 

Thus saying she drcAV near the AAundoAA^, and 
without a Avord of fareAvell to Margaret, became 
absorbed in gazing, and Margaret left her, ran 
lightly doAvn the steps, and in a minute more 
Avas in the house. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Days passed during Avhich CleA’e Verney paid 
stolen visits at Malory, more cautiously man- 
aged than ever, and nearly every afternoon did 
the good people of Cardyllian see him Avalk the 
green, to and fro, Avith the Hazelden girls, so 
that the subject began to be canvassed very 
gravely, and CA^en Miss Charity was disposed to 
think that he certainly did like Agnes, and con- 
fided to her friend, Mrs. Brindley, of “The Cot- 
tage,” that if Aggie married, she should give up. 
Nothing could induce her, Miss Charity, to mar- 
ry, she solemnly assured her friends. 

And I must do that spinster the justice to 
say, that there AA^as not the faintest flavor of 
sour grapes in the acerbity with Avhich she pro- 
nounced against the. “shocking folly of girls 
marrying,” for she might undoubtedly have been 
married, having had in her youth several unex- 
ceptionable offers, none of Avhich had ever 
moved her. 

I knoAv not Avhat hopes Sir Booth may haA'e 
founded upon his conversation AAuth Cleve Ver- 
n.ey. Men in the baronet’s predicament nurse 
their hopes fondly, and'their mustard seeds groAV 
rapidly into great trees, in AA'liose branches they 
shelter their families, and roost themselves. He 
greAV gracious at times in the contemplation of 
brilliant possibilities, and one day, to her amaze- 
ment and consternation, opened the matter 
briefly to Miss Sheckleton, AA-ho fancied that she 
Avas discovered, and he on the point of exploding, 
and felt as if she AA'ere going to faint. 

Happily for her, he fancied that ClcA^e must 
huYe seen Margaret accidentally during some of 
his political knight-errantries in the county 
which he had contested with Sir Booth. We 
knoAV, as Avell as Miss Sheckleton, hoAV this 
really Avas. 

Sir Booth’s dreams, however, AA^ere broken 
Avith a crash. To Miss Anne Sheckleton came 
a letter from Sir Booth’s attorneys, informing 
the baronet that Mr. Kiffyn Fulke Verney had 
just serA’ed them Avith a notice Avhich seemed to 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


50 


threaten a wantonly vexatious and expensive 
proceeding, and then desired to know what course, 
having detailed the respective consequences of 
each, he would wish them to take. 

Now, Sir Booth broke into one of his frenzies, 
called up Miss Sheckleton, damned and cursed 
the whole Verney family, excommunicated them, 
and made the walls of Malory ring with the 
storm and thunder he launched at the heads of 
the ancient race who had built them. 

Scared and pale, Miss Anne Sheckleton with- 
drew. 

“ My dear, something has happened; he has 
had a letter from his law people, and Mr. Kiffyn 
Yerney has directed, I think, some unexpected 
proceedings. How I wish they would stoj3 these 
miserable lawsuits, and leave your papa at peace. 
Your papa’s attorneys think they can gain noth- 
ing by worrying him, and it is so unfortunate 
just now.” 

So spoke Miss Sheckleton, who had found Mar- 
garet, with her bullfinch and her squirrels, in 
that pretty but melancholy room which is dark- 
ened by the old wood, through whose shafted 
stems long shadowy perspectives open, and 
there, as in the dim light of a monastic library, 
she was busy over the illumination of her vel- 
lum Psalter, with gold and ultramarine, and all 
other vivid pigments. 

Margaret stood up, and looked in her face 
rather pale, and with her small hand pressed 
to her heart. 

“He’s ?;e?y/ angry,” added Miss Sheckleton, 
with a dark look and a nod. 

“ Are we going to leave this ?” inquired the 
girl in almost a whisper. 

“He did not say; I fancy not. No, he’d 
have said so the first thing,” answered the old 
lady. 

“ Well; we can do nothing ; it can’t be helped, 
I suppose,” said Miss Margaret, looking down 
very sadly on her mediceval blazonry. 

“Nothing, my dear; nothing on earth. No 
one can be more anxious that all this kind of 
thing should cease, than Cleve Verney, as you 
know; but what can even /le do?” said Miss 
Sheckleton. 

Margaret looked through the window, down 
the dark glade, and sighed. 

“ His uncle, Kiffyn Verney,” resumed Anne 
Sheckleton, “is such a disagreeable, spiteful 
man, and such a feud has been between them, I 
really don’t see how it is to end; but Cleve, you 
know, is so clever, and so devoted, I’m sure he’ll 
find some way.” 

Margaret sighed again, and said — 

“Papa, I suppose, is ver?/ angry.” 

I think Sir Booth Fanshawe was the only per- 
son on earth whom that spirited girl really feared. 
I’m afraid there was not much good in that old 
man, and that most of the things I have heard 
of him were true. Unlike other violent men, 
he was not easily placable ; and generally, Avhen 
it. was not veiy troublesome, remembered and 
executed his threats. She remembered dimly 
scenes between him and her dead mother. She 


remembered well her childish dread of his se- 
verity, and her fear of his eye and his voice had 
never left her. 

Miss Sheckleton just lifted her fingers in the 
air, and raised her eyes to the ceiling, with a 
little shake of her head. 

Margaret sighed again. I suppose she was 
thinking of that course of true love that never 
yet ran smooth, upon which the freightage of 
her life was ventured. 

Her spinster friend looked on her sad pale 
face, gazing drearily into the forest shades. The 
solemn shadow of the inevitable, the sorrows of 
human life, had now for the first time begun to 
touch her young fiice. The old story was al- 
ready telling itself to her, in those faint ominous 
musical tones that swell to solemn anthem soon ; 
and sometimes, crash and howl at last in storm 
over such wreck, and in such darkness as w'C 
shut our eyes upon, and try to forget. 

Old Anne Sheckleton’s face saddened at the 
sight with a beautiful softness. She laid hei\ 
thin hand on the girl’s shoulder, and then put 
her arms about her neck, and kissed her, and 
said — “ All will come right, darling, you’ll see 
and the girl made answer by another kiss ; and 
they stood for a minute, hand locked in hand, 
and the old maid smiled tenderly, a cheerful 
smile but pale, and patted her cheek and nod- 
ded, and, with another kiss, left the room, with 
a mournful presage heavy at her heart. 

As she passed, the stern voice of Sir Booth 
called to her. 

“Yes,” she answ^ered. 

“A w'ord or two,” he said, and she went to 
his room. 

“ I’ve been thinking,” said he, looking at her 
steadily and fiercely — had some suspicion light- 
ed up his mind since he had spoken to her ? — 
“ that young man, Cleve Verney, I believe he’s 
still at Ware? Do you know him ?” 

“ I should know his appearance. I saw him 
two or three times during that contest for the 
county, two years since ; but he did not see me. 
I’m sure.” 

This was an evasion, but the vices of slavery 
always grow up under a tyranny. 

“Well, Margaret; does she correspond with 
any one ?” demanded he. 

“I can answer for it, positively. Margaret 
has no correspondence. She writes to no one,” 
she answered. 

“That fellow is still at Ware. So Christ- 
mas Owen told me last night — a place of the 
Verneys, at the other side — and he has got a 
post. I should not w'onder if he were to come 
here, trying to see her.” 

So Sir Booth followed out his hypothesis, and 
waxed wroth, and more wroth as he proceeded, 
and so chafed himself into one of his paroxysms 
of temper. I know not what he said, but when 
she left him, poor Miss Sheckleton was in tears, 
and trembling, told Margaret, that if it were 
not for her, she ‘would not remain another day 
in his house. She related to IMargaret what 
had passed, and said — 


60 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


“I almost hope Clcve Verney may not come 
again while we remain here. I really don’t 
know what might be the consequence of your 
papa’s meeting him here, in his present state of 
exasperation ! Of course to Cleve it would be 
very little ; but your existence, my poor child, 
would be made so miserable ! And as for me, 
I tell you frankly, I should be compelled to 
leave you. Every one knows what Booth Fan- 
shawe is when he is angry — how cruel he can 
be. I know he’s your father, my dear, but we 
can’t be blind to facts, and we both know that 
his misfortunes have not improved his temper.” 

Cleve nevertheless saw the ladies that day, 
talked with them earnestly and hurriedly, for 
Miss Anne Sheckleton was nervous and miser- 
able till the interview ended, and submitted to 
the condition imposed by that kindly and panic- 
stricken lady, which was on no account to visit 
Malory as heretofore for two or three days, by 
the end of which time she hoped Sir Booth’s 
anger and suspicions might have somewhat sub- 
sided. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

IN WHICII THE LADIES PEEP INTO CAEDYLLIAN. 

“My dear child,” said Miss Sheckleton next 
day, “is not this a very wild freak, considering 
you have shut yourself up so closely, and not. 
without reason? Suppose among the visitors 
at Cardyllian there should happen to be one who 
has seen and knows you, how would it be if he or 
she should meet and recognize you ?” 

“Rely on me, dear old cousin, no one shall 
know me.” 

The young lady, in a heavy gray Highland 
shawl, was standing before the looking-glass in 
her room as she spoke. 

“ Girls look all alike in these great shawls, 
and I shall wear my thick lace vail, through 
which I defy any one to see a feature of my face, 
and even my feet, in these strong, laced boots, 
are disguised. Noio — see ! I should not know 
myself in the glass among twenty others. I 
might meet you a dozen times in Cardyllian and 
you should not recognize me. Look and say.” 

“ H’m — well ! I must allow it would not be 
easy to see through all this,” said Miss Shec- 
kleton ; “but don’t forget and lift up your vail 
when you come into the town — the most un- 
likely people are there sometimes. Who do you 
think I had a bow from the other day, but old 
Doctor Bell, who lives in York ; and the same 
evening in Castle Street whom should I see but 
my Oxford Street dress-maker. It does not mat- 
ter, you know, where a solitary old maid like 
me is seen, but it would be quite different in 
your case, and who knows what danger to your 
papa might result from it?” 

“I shan’t forget — I really shan’t,” said the 
girl. 

“ Well, dear, Pvc said all I could to dissuade 
you, but if you icill come I suppose you must,” 
said Miss Anne. 


“It’s just as you say — a fancy,” answered 
Margaret, “ but I feel that if I were disappoint- 
ed I should die.” 

I think, and Miss Sheckleton thought so too, 
that this pretty girl was very much excited that 
day, and could not endure thef terrible stillness 
of Malory. Uncertainty, suspense, enforced 
absence from the person who loved her best in 
the world, and who yet is very near ; dangers 
and hopes, quite new— no wonder if all these 
incidents of her situation did excite her. 

It was near a w^eek since the elder lady had 
appeared in the streets and shops of Cardyllian. 
Between the banks of the old sylvan road she 
and her mysterious companion walked in si- 
lence into steep Church Street, and down that 
quaint quarter of the town presenting houses of 
all dates from three centuries ago, and by the 
church, still older, down into Castle Street, in 
which, as we. know, stands the shop of Jones 
the draper. Empty of customers was this well- 
garnished shop when the two ladies of Malory 
entered it; and Mrs. Jones raised her broad, 
bland, spectacled face, with a smile and a word 
of greeting to Miss Anne Sheckleton, and an 
invitation to both ladies to “be seated,” and 
her usual inquiry, as she leaned over the coun- 
ter, “ And what will you be pleased to want?” 
and the order, “John, get down the gray linseys 
— not them — those over yonder — yes, sure, you’d 
like to see the best — I know you would.” 

So some little time was spent over the linseys, 
and then — 

“ You’re to measure thirteen yards, John, for 
Miss Anne Sheckleton, and send it over with 
trimmin’s and linin’s to Miss Pritchard. Miss 
Anne Sheckleton will speak to Miss Pritchard 
about the trimmin’s herself.” 

Then Mrs. Jones obsei’ved — 

“ What a day this hasheen — hasn’t it. Miss? 
And such weather, uZtogether, I really don’t re- 
member in Cardyllian, I think erer.” 

“Yes, charming weather,” acquiesced Miss 
Sheckleton, and just then two ladies came in 
and bought some velvet ribbon, which caused 
an interruption. 

“ What a pretty girl,” said Miss Anne, so 
soon as the ladies had withdrawn. “ Is that her 
mother ?” 

“Oh, no — dear, no. Miss; they are sisters,” 
half laughed Mrs. Jones. “ Don’t you know 
who they are ? Xo ! Well, they are the JMiss 
Etherages. There, they’re going down to the 
green. She’ll meet him there. She’s going to 
make a very great match, ma’am — yes, indeed.” 

“Oh? But w’hom is she going to meet?” 
asked Miss Anne, who liked the good lady’s 
gossiji. 

“Oh, you donH know? Well, dear me ! I 
thought every one knew that. Why Mr. Cleve, 
of course — young Mr. Verney. He meets her 
every afternoon on the green here, and walks 
home with the young ladies. It has been a very 
old liking — you understand — between them, and 
lately he has grown very pressing, and they do 
say — them that should know — that the Admiral 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


Cl 


— we call him — Mr. Vane Etherage — her father, 
has spoke to him. She has a good fortune, 
you know — yes, indeed — the two Miss Etherages 
has — we count them quite heiresses here in Car- 
dyllian, and a very good old family too. Every 
body is pleased it is to be, and they do say Mr. 
Kiftyn — that is, the Honorable Kiffyn Fulke 
Verney — will be very glad, too, he should settle 
at last, and has wrote to the young lady’s father, 
to say how well pleased he is ; for Mr. Cleve 
has been” — here she dropped her voice to a con- 
fidential murmur, approaching her spectacles to 
the very edge of her customer’s bonnet, as she 
rested her fat arms upon the counter — “ wild. 
Oh, dear ! they do tell such stories of him ! 
A pity. Miss Sheckleton — isnU it ? — there should 
be so many stories to his prejudice. But, dear 
me ! he has been wild. Miss ; and now, you see, 
on that account it is Mr. Kiffyn — the Honorable 
Kiffyn Fulke Verney — is so well pleased he 
should settle and take a wife that will be so liked 
by the people at Ware as well as at this side.” 

Miss Anne Sheckleton had been listening 
with an uneasiness which the draper’s wife fan- 
cied she saw, yet doubted her own observation ; 
for she could not understand why her old spin- 
ster customer should care a farthing about the 
matter, the talk about his excursions to Malory 
having been quite suspended and abolished by 
the sustained and vigorous gossip to which his 
walks with Agnes Etherage, and his ostenta- 
tious attention, had given rise. 

“But Miss Etherage is hardly the kind of 
person — is she ? — whom a young man of fash- 
ion, such as I suppose young Mr. Verney to be, 
would think of. She must have been very 
much shut up with her old father, at that quite 
little place of his,” suggested Miss Sheckleton. 

“ Shut up. Miss ! ’ C/ly dear me ! Nothing 
of that- sort. Miss. She JsXou<t with her sister. 
Miss Charity, every day, about the schools, and 
the Sunday classes, and the lending library, and 
the clothing charity, and all them things ; very 
good of /zer, you know. I often say to her — ‘ I 
ivonder, Miss Agnes — that’s her name — you’re 
not tired with all you walk ; I do, indeed 
and she only laughs. She has a pretty laugh 
too, she has ; and Mr. Cleve said to me once — 
that’s two years ago, now — the first year he was 
spoke of in Cardy Ilian about her. We did 
think then there was something tp be, and now 
it is all on again, and the old people — as we 
may call them — is well pleased it should.” 

“ Yes, but I mean that Miss Etherage has 
seen nothing of the world — nothing of society, 
except what is to be met with at Hazelden — isn’t 
that the name of the place ? — and in her little 
excursions into this town. Isn’t it so ?” said 
Miss Sheckleton. 

“ Oh, no ! — bless you, no. Miss Agnes Ether- 
age — they pay visits — she and her sister — at 
all the great houses ; a week here, and a fort- 
night there, round the two counties, this side 
and the other. She’s a great favorite, is Miss 
Agnes. She can play and sing, dear me, very 
nice, she can. I have heard her. You would 


wonder, now, what a bright little thing she 
is.” 

“ But even so. I don’t think that town-bred 
young men ever care much for country -bred 
young ladies. Not that they mayn’t be a great 
deal better ; but, somehow, they don’t suit, I 
think — they don’t get on.” 

“ But, mark you this,” said Mrs. Jones. “ He 
always liked her. We always saw he liked 
her. There’s property too — a good estate ; and 
all goes to them two girls ; and Miss Charity, 
we all know, will never marry ; no more will 
the Admiral — I mean Mr. Etherage himself — 
with them legs of his ; and Mr. Kiffyn — Master 
Cleve’s uncle — s23oke to our lawyer here once 
about it, as if it was a thing he would like — that 
the Hazelden property should be joined to the 
Ware estate.” 

“ Joined together in holy wedlock,” laughed 
Miss Sheckleton ; but she was not particularly 
cheerful. And some more intending purchasers 
coming in and seizing upon the communicative 
Mrs. JoneSj who had only time to whisper “ They 
do say — them that shoidd know — that it will be 
in Spring next ; but I’m not to tell ; so you’ll 
please remember it’s a secret.” 

“ Shall we go, dear ?” whispered Miss Shec- 
kleton to her muffled companion, who forthwith 
rose and accompanied her from the shop, fol- 
lowed by the eyes of Mrs. Jones’s new visitors, 
who were more interested on hearing that “ it 
was Miss Anne Sheckleton and the other Malo- 
ry lady,” and they slipped out to the door-step, 
and under the awning peeped after the mysterious 
ladies, until an accidental backward glance from 
Miss Sheckleton routed them, and the materfain- 
ilias entered a little hastily but gravely, and 
with her head high, and her young ladies tit- 
tering. 

As Cleve Verney walked to and fro beside 
pretty Agnes Etherage that day, and talked as 
usual, gayly and fluently, there seemed on a siid- 
den to come a sort of blight over the harvest of 
his thoughts — both corn and flowers. He re- 
peated the end of his sentence, and forgot 
what he was going to say ; and Miss Charity 
said, “ Well ? go on ; I want so much to hear 
the end and looking up, she thought he look- 
ed a little pale. 

“Yes, certainly. I’ll tell you the end when I can 
remember it. But I let myself think of some- 
thing else for a moment, and it has flown 
away — ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” interrupted Miss Char- 
it}", “just a moment; look there Aggie ; aren’t 
those the Malory ladies ?” 

“ AVhere ?” said Cleve. “ Oh ! I see. Very 
like, I think — the old lady, I mean.” 

“ Yes, oh certainly,” replied Agnes, “it is 
the old lady, and I’m nearly certain the young 
lady also ; who else can it be ? It must be she.” 

“They are going over the hill to Malory,” 
said Miss Charity. “ I don’t know what it is 
about that old lady that I think so wonderfully 
nice, and so perfectly charming, and the young 
lady is the most perfectly — beautiful — person. 


G2 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


all to nothing^ I ever saw in my life. Don’t 
you think so, Mr. Yerney ?” 

‘‘ Your sister, I’m sure, is very much obliged,” 
said he, with a glance at Agnes. “But this 
3Ialory young lady is so muffled in that great 
shawl that there is very little indeed to remind 
one of the young lady we saw in Church — ” 

“What o’clock is that?” interrupted Miss 
Charity, as the boom of the clock from the 
church tower sounded over the green. 

So it seemed their hour had come, and the 
little demonstration on the green came to a 
close, and Cleve that evening walked with the 
Hazelden ladies only so far as the bridge, there 
taking his leave with an excuse. He felt un- 
comfortably somehow. That Margaret Ean- 
shawe should have actually come down to Car- 
dyllian was a singular and almost unaccounta- 
ble occurrence. 

Cleve Yerney had certainly not intended the 
pantomime which he presented to the window 
of the Cardyllian reading-room for the eyes 
that had witnessed it. 

Cleve was uncomfortable. It is always un- 
pleasant to have to explain — especially where 
the exculpation involves a disclosure that is not 
noble. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

IN THE OAK PARLOR — A MEETING AND PARTING. 

“ Gossiping place Cardyllian is,” said Miss 
Anne Sheckleton, after they had walked on a 
little in silence. “What nonsense the people 
do talk. I never heard any thing like it. Did 
you ever hear such a galamathias ?” 

The young lady walking by her side answer- 
ed by a cold little laugh — 

“ Yes, I suppose so. All small country towns 
arc, I believe,” said she. 

“And that good old soul, Mrs. Jones, she 
does invent the most absurd gossip about every 
body that imagination can conceive. Wilmot 
told me the other day that she had given her to 
understand that your father is a madman, sent 
down here by London doctors for change of air. 
I make it a point never to mind one word she 
says ; although her news, I confess, does amuse 
me.” 

“Yes, it is very foolish. Who are those 
Etherages?” said Margaret. 

“Oh! They are village people — oddities,” 
said Miss Sheckleton. “From all I can gather, 
you have no idea wfflat absurd people they are.” 

“ He was walking with them. Was not he ?” 
asked the young lady. 

“ Yes — I think so,” answered her cousin. 

Then followed a long silence, and the elder 
lady at length said — 

“ How fortunate we have been in our weath- 
er ; haven’t we ? How beautiful the hills look 
this evening !” said the spinster ; but her words 
did not sound as if she cared about the hills or 
the light. I believe the two ladies were acting 
a part. 


“Yes,” said Margaret, “so they do.” 

The girl felt as if she had walked fifty miles 
instead of two — quite worn out — her limbs ach- 
ing with a sense of fatigue ; it was, a trouble to 
hold her head up. She would have liked to 
sit down on the old stone bench they were pass- 
ing now, and to die there like a worn-out pris- 
oner on a march. 

Two or three times that evening as they sat 
unusually silent and listless. Miss Anne Shec- 
kleton peeped over her spectacles, lowering her 
work for a moment, with a sad inquir}^ into her 
face, and seemed on the point of speaking. But 
there was nothing inviting to talk in Margaret’s 
face, and when she spoke there was no reference 
to the subject on which Miss Sheckleton would 
have liked to speak. 

So, at last tired, with a pale wandering smile 
she kissed the kind old spinster and bid her 
good-night. When she reached her room, how- 
ever, she did not undress, but having secured 
her door, she sat down to her little desk, and 
wrote a letter ; swiftly and resolutely the pen 
glided over the page. Nothing added — nothing 
erased ; each line remained as she penned it 
first. 

Having placed this letter in its envelope, and 
addressed it to “ Cleve Yerney, Esq., Ware,” 
she opened her window. The air was mild ; 
none of the sharpness in it that usually gives 
to nights at that time of year, a frosty foretaste 
of winter. So sitting by the window, which, 
placed in one of the gables of the old house, 
commands a view of the uplands of Cardyllian, 
and to the left, of the sea and the mistv mount- 
ains — she sat there, leaning upon her Iiand. 

Here with tlie letter on her lap, slie sat, pale 
as a meditating suicide, aiid looking dreamily 
over the landscape. R is, at times, some little 
incident of by-play, ’or Jnbmcntary hesitation of 
countenance, that ‘gives its whole character and 
force to a situation. Before the retina of Mar- 
garet one image was always visible, that of 
Cleve Yerney as she saw him to-day, looking 
under Agnes Etherage’s bonnet, with interest, 
into her face, as he talked and walked by her 
side, on the green of .C^'t’dyllian. 

Of course there are fiilse prophecies as well 
as true, in love ; illusions as well as inspira- 
tions, and fancied intimations may mislead. 
But Margaret could not doubt here. All the 
time she smiled and assumed her usual tone and 
manner, there was an agony at her heart. 

Miss Fanshawe would trust no one with her 
secret. She was not like otlier girls. Some- 
thing of the fiery spirit of her southern descent 
she ha'd inherited. She put on the shawl and 
vail she had worn that day, unbarred the hall 
door, and at two o’clock, when Cardyllian was 
locked in the deepest slumber, glided through 
its empty streets to the little wooden portico, 
over which that day she had read “ Post-office,” 
and placed in it the letter which next morning 
made quite a little sensation in the post-office 
coterie » 

Under the awful silence and darkness of the 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


G3 


old avenue, she reached again the hall door of 
Malory. She stood for a moment upon the 
steps looking seaward — I think toward Ware — 
pale as a ghost, with one slender hand clenched, 
and a wild sorrow in her face. She cared very 
little, I think, whether her excursion were dis- 
covered or not. The messenger had flown from 
her empty hand ; her voice could not recall it 
or delay it for an hour — quite irrevocable, and 
all was over. 

She entered the hall, closed and barred the 
door again, ascended to her room, and lay 
awake, through the long night, with her hand 
under her cheek, not stunned, nor dreaming, 
but in a frozen apathy, in which she saw all 
with a despairing clearness. 

Next day Cleve Verney received a note, in a 
hand which he knew not ; but having read — 
could not mistake — a cold, proud note, with a 
gentle cruelty, ending all between them, quite 
decisively, and not deigning a reason for it. 

I dare say that Cleve could not himself de- 
scribe with much precision the feelings with 
which he read this letter. 

Cleve Yerney, however, could be as impetu- 
ous and as rash too, on occasion, as other peo- 
ple. There was something of rage in his soul 
which scouted all consequences. Could temer- 
ity be imagined more audacious than his. 

Right across from Ware to the jetty of Mal- 
ory ran his yacht, audaciously, in open sea, in 
broad day-light. There is, in the dower house, a 
long low room, wainscoatcd in black shining pan- 
els from floor to ceiling, and which in old times 
w'as called the oak parlor. It has two doors 
in one of its long sides, the farther opening 
near the stairs, the other close to the hall door. 

Up the avenue, up the steps, into the hall, 
and, taking chance, into this room, walked 
Cleve Verney, without encountering interrup- 
tion or even observation. Fortuna favet fortihus^ 
so runs the legend in faded gold letters, under 
the dim portrait of Sir Thomas Yerney, in his 
armor, fixed in the panel of the hall. So it had 
proved with his descendant. 

Favored by fortune, without having met a 
human being, and directed by the same divinity 
it would seem, he had entered the room I have 
described ; and at the other end, alone, await- 
ing Miss Sheckleton, who was to accompany her 
in a little ramble among the woods, stood Miss 
Fanshawe, dressed for her walk. 

In came Cleve pale with agitation ; . approach- 
ed her quickly, and stopped short, saying — 

‘ ‘ I’ve come ; I’m here to ask — how could 
you — my God 1 — how could you write the letter 
you sent this morning ?” 

Miss Fanshawe was leaning a little against 
the oak window-frame, and did not change this 
pose, which was haughty and almost sullen. 

“ Why I wrote that letter, no one has a right 
to ask me, and I shall say no more tlian is con- 
tained in the letter itself.” ^ She spoke so coldly 
and quietly that there seemed almost a sadness 
in her tones. 

“ I don’t think you can really mean it,” said 


Cleve, ‘‘I’m sure you can’t; you possibly 
think that any one could use another so, with- 
out a reason.’’ 

“ Not without a reason,” said she. 

“ But I say, surely I have a right to hear it,” 
urged Cleve. “Is it fair to condemn me, as 
your letter does, unheard, and to puiiish me in 
ignorance ?” 

‘ ‘ Not in ignorance ; at this moment, you 
know the reason perfectly,” replied the girl, and 
he felt as if her great hazel eyes lighted up all 
the dark labyrinths of his brain, and disclosed 
every secret that lurked there. 

Cleve was for a moment embarrassed, and 
averted his eyes. It was true. He did know ; 
he could not fail to guess the cause. He had 
been cursing his ill luck all the morning, and 
wondering what malign caprice could have led 
her, of all times and places, at that moment 
to the green of Cardyllian. 

In the “Arabian Nights,” that delightful 
volume which owes nothing to trick or book- 
craft, and will preserve its charm undimmed 
through all the imitations of style and schools, 
which, projecting its images from the lamp and 
hues of a dazzling fancy, can no more be lec- 
tured into neglect than the magic lantern, and 
will preserve its popularity while the faculty of 
imagination and the sense of color remain, we 
all remember a parallel. In the “ Sultan’s 
Purveyor’s Story,” where the beautiful favorite 
of Zobside is about to make the bridegroom of 
her love quite happy, and in the moment of his 
.adoration, starts up transformed with a “lam- 
entable cry,” and hate and fury in her aspect, 
all about that unfortunate “ragout made with 
garlic,” and thereupon, with her own hand and 
terrible scourge, lashes him, held down by 
slaves, into a welter of blood, and then orders 
the executioner to strike off, at the wrist, his of- 
fending hand. 

“Oh, yes! you do know, self-convicted, loliyl 
think it better for both that 'sve should part now 
— better that we should thus early be unde- 
ceived; with little pain and less reluctance, 
forget the precipitation and folly of an hour, 
and go our several ways through life apart. You 
are fickle ; you are selfish ; you are reckless ; 
you are quite unworthy of the love you ask for ; 
if you are trifling with that young lady. Miss 
Etherage, how cruel and unmanly ; and if not, 
by what right do you presume to stand here?” 

Could he ever forget that beautiful girl as he 
saw her before him there, almost terrible— her 
eyes — the strange white light that seemed to 
flicker on her forehead — her attitude, Italian 
more than English, statuesque and wild? 

On a sudden came another change, sad as a 
broken-hearted death and hire well — tlie low tone 
— the fond lingering — of an unspeakable sorrow, 
and eternal leave-taking. 

“In either case my resolution is taken. I 
have said Farewell; and I will see you no more 
— no more — never.” 

I And as she spoke, she left the room by the 
door that was beside her. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


C4 


It was a new sensation for Cleve Verney to 
feel as lie did at that moment. A few steps he 
followed toward the door, and then hesitated. 
Then with a new impulse, he did follow and 
open it. But she was gone. Even the sound 
of her step was lost. 

He turned back and paused for a minute to 
collect his thoughts. Of course this must not 
be. The idea of giving her up so was simple 
nonsense, and not to be listened to. 

The door at which the young lady had left 
the room but two or three minutes before, now 
opened, and Miss Sheckleton’s natty figure and 
kind old face came in. Quite aghast she looked 
at him. 

“ For God’s sake, Mr. Verney, why are you 
here? How can you be so rash?” she almost 
gasped. “You must go, instantly 

‘ ‘ How could you advise the cruelty and folly 
of that letter ?” he said, impetuously. 

“ What letter ?” 

“Oh! Miss Sheckleton, do let us be frank; 
only say wliat have I done or said or thought, 
that I should be condemned and discarded with- 
out a hearing ?” 

Hereupon Miss Sheckleton, still urging his de- 
parture in frightened whispers, protested her in- 
nocence of his meaning, and at last bethought 
her of persuading him to leave the house, and 
meet her for the purpose of explaining all, of 
which he soon perceived she was honestly igno- 
rant, in their accustomed try sting place. 

There, accordingly, among the old trees, they 
met and discussed, and she blamed and pitied 
him ; and promised, with guch caution as old 
ladies use in speaking for the resolves of the 
young of their own sex, that Margaret should 
learn the truth from her, although she could not 
of course say what she might think of it, taking 
as she did such decided, and, sometimes, strange 
views of things. 

So they parted kindly. But Cleve’s heart 
was disquieted within him, and his sky this even- 
ing was wild and stormy. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

JUD^US APELLA. 

On the stillest summer day did you ever see 
nature quite still, even that circumscribed nature 
that hems you round with densest trees, as you 
lounge on your rustic seat, in lazy contempla- 
tion, amid the shorn grass of your flower-beds, 
and which are all oppressed and stifled with 
heat and slumber? Look attentively, and you 
will see a little quiver like a dying pulse in the 
hanging flower-bells, and a light faint tremble in 
this leaf and that. Of nature, which is, being 
interpreted, life, the law is motion, and this law 
controls the moral as well as the physical world. 
Thus it is that there is nowhere any such thing 
as absolute repose, and everywhere we find 
change and action. 

Over Malory, if anywhere, broods the spirit 
of repose. Buried in deep forest — fenced on 


one side by the lonely estuary — no town or vil- 
lage lying beyond it ; seaward the little old- 
world roads that pass by it are quite forsaken by 
traffic. Even the sound of children’s laughter 
and prattle are never heard there, and little but 
the solemn caw of the rooks and the baying of 
the night dog. Yet chance was then invading 
that quiet seclusion with an unexpected danger. 

A gentleman driving that day to the “ George 
Inn” at Cardyllian, from a distant station on 
the Great London line, and having picked up 
from his driver, a Cardyllian man, all he could 
about Malory, and old Mrs. Mervyn who lived 
there, stopped suddenly at the corner of the old 
road, which, two miles below Cardyllian, turns 
off inland, and rambles with many pleasant 
windings into the road that leads to Penruthyn 
Priory. 

This gentleman, whose dress w'as in the cheap 
and striking style, and whose jewelry was con- 
spicuous, was high-shouldered, with a very de- 
cided curve, though^ not exactly a hunch. He 
was small, with rather long arms. His hair, 
whiskers, and beard were glossy black, and his 
features Jewish. He switched and twirled a 
black walking-cane, with silver knobs on it, in 
his hand, and he had two or three rings on his 
fingers. 

His luggage had gone on to the “George,” 
and whenever opportunity occurred along that 
solitary road he renewed his inquiries about 
Malory, with a slight peculiarity of accent which 
the unsophisticated rustics in that part of the 
world had never heard before. 

By this time it was evening, and in the light 
of the approaching sunset, he might now, as the 
view of the sea and the distant mountains 
opened, have enjoyed a pleasure for which, how- 
ever, he had no taste ; these evening glows and 
tints were to him but imperfect light, and he 
looked along the solemn and shadowy hills as 
he would have run his eye along the shops in 
Cheapside — if Avith any interest, simply to amuse 
himself Avith a calculation of Avhat they might be 
Avorth in money. 

He Avas noAV passing the pretty church-yard 
of Llanderris. The gray head-stones and grass- 
grown gravies brought home to him no passing 
thought of change and mortality ; death was to 
him an arithmetical formula by which he meas- 
ured annuities and reversions and policies. 
And noAV he had entered the steep pretty road 
that leads down Avith an irregular curA'e to Mal- 
ory. 

He looked doAvn upon the grand old AA^ood. 
He had a smattering of the A’^alue of timber, and 
remembered Avhat a hit Rosenthal & Solomons 
had made of their purchase of the Avood at East 
Milton, Avhen the raihvay was about to be made 
there ; and what a nice bit of money they had 
made of their contract for sleepers and all sorts 
of other things. Could not Jos. Larkin, or some 
better man, be found^to get up a little branch 
line from Lluinan to Cardyllian ? His large 
mouth almost AA^atered as he thought of it ; and 
hoAV that eight or nine miles of rail Avould dcA’Our 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


65 


every inch of timber that grew there — not a 
branch would be lost. 

But now he was descending tow'ard Malory, 
and the banks at the right hand and the left 
shut out the view. So he began to descend the 
slope at his leisure, looking up and about him 
and down at the worn road for material for 
thought, for his mind was bustling and barren. 

The road is not four steps across. It winds 
steeply between high banks. Over these stoop, 
and cross, and mingle in the perspective, the 
gray stems of tall ash trees mantled in ivy, 
which here and there has climbed among the 
boughs, and made a darker umbrage among the 
clear green foliage of the trees. Beneath, as- 
cending the steep banks, grow clumps of nettles, 
elder, hazel, and thorn. Only down the slope 
of the road can the passenger see any thing of 
the country it traverses, for the banks out-top 
him on either side. The rains have washed its 
stones so bare, wearing a sort of gulley in the 
centre, as to give it the character in some sort of 
a forest ravine. 

The sallow hatchet-firced man, with promi- 
nent black eyes, was walking up this steep and 
secluded road. Those sharp eyes of his were 
busy. A wild bee hummed over his head, and 
he cut at it pleasantly with his stick, but it was 
out of reach, and he paused and eyed its uncon- 
scious flight with an ugly smile, as if he owed 
it a grudge for having foiled him. There was 
little life in that secluded and dark track. He 
spied a small dome-shaped black beetle stum- 
bling through the dust and pebbles across it. 

The little man drew near and peered at it 
with his piercing eyes and a pleasant grin. He 
stooped. The point of his pale nose was right 
over it. Across the desert the beetle was toil- 
ing. His path was a right line. The little 
man looked across to see what he was aiming at, 
or where was his home. There was nothing par- 
ticular that he could perceive in the grass and 
weeds at the point whitherward he was tending 
in a right line. The beetle sprawled and stum- 
bled over a little bead of clay, recovered his feet and 
his direction, and plodded on in a straight line. 
The little man put his stick, point downward, 
before him. The beetle rounded it carefully, 
and plodded on inflexibly in the same direction. 
Then he of the black eyes and long nose knock- 
ed him gently in the face, and again, and again, 
jerking him this way or that. Still, like a prize- 
fighter he rallied between the rounds, and drove 
right on in his old line. Then the little man 
gave him- a sharper knock, which sent him a 
couple of feet away, on his back ; right and left 
sprawled and groped the short legs of the beetle, 
but alas ! in vain. He could not right himself. 
He tried to lurch himself over, but in vain. 
Now and then came a frantic gallop with his 
little feet ; it was beating the air. This was 
pleasant to the man with the piercing eyes, who 
stooped over, smiling with his wide mouth, and 
showing his white fangs. I wonder what the 
beetle thought of his luck — what he thought of 
it all. The paroxysms of hope, when his feet 
E 


worked so hard, grew shorter. The intervals 
of despair and inaction grew longer. The beetle 
was making up his mind that he must lie on his 
back and die slowly, or be crushed under a hoof, 
or picked up and swallowed by a wandering 
farm-yard fowl. 

Though it was pleasant to witness his despair, 
the man with the prominent eyes tired of the 
sight, he gave him a poke under the back, and 
tumbled him up again on his feet, and watched 
him. The beetle seemed a little bothered for 
a while, and would have shaken himself I’m 
sure if he could. But he soon came to himself, 
turned in his old direction, and, as it seemed to 
the observer, marched stumbling on with indom- 
itable perseverance toward the self-same point. 
I know nothing of beetle habits. I can make 
no guess why he sought that particular spot. 
Was it merely a favorite haunt, or were there a 
little beetle brood, and a wife awaiting him 
there? A strong instinct of some sort urged 
him, and a most heroic perseverance. 

And now I suppose he thought his troubles 
over, and that his journey was about surely to 
be accomplished. Alas! it will never be ac- 
complished. There is an influence near which 
you suspect not. The distance is lessening, the 
green g.rass, and dock leaves, and mallows, very 
near. Alas I there is no sympathy with your 
instinct, with the purpose of your life, with your 
labors and hopes. An inverted sympathy is 
there; a sympathy with the difficulty — with 
“ the Adversary” — with death. The little man 
with the sharp black eyes brought the point of 
his stick near the beetle’s back, having seen 
enough of his pilgrimage, and squelched him. 

The pleasure of malice is curious. There 
are people who flavor their meals with their re- 
venges, whose future is made interesting by the 
hope that this or that person may come under 
their heel. Which is pleasantest, building castles 
in the air for ourselves, or dungeons in Pan- 
demonium for our enemies ? It is well for one 
half of the human race that the other has not 
the disposal of them. More rare, more gro- 
tesque, more exquisitely fiendish, is that sport 
with the mysteries of agony, that lust of torture, 
that constitute the desire and the fruition of 
some monstrous souls. 

Now, having ended that beetle’s brief life in 
eternal darkness, and reduced all his thoughts 
and yearnings to cipher, and dissolved his per- 
severing and resolute little character, never to 
be recombined, this young gentleman looked up 
among the yellow leaves in which the birds 
were chirping their evening gossip, and treated 
them to a capital imitation of a wild- cat, follow- 
ed by a still happier one of a screech-owl, which 
set all the sparrows in the ivy round twittering 
in panic ; and having sufficiently amused him- 
self, the sun being now near the horizon, he be- 
thought him of his mission to Malory. So on 
he marched whistling an air from an opera, 
which, I am bound to admit, he did witli the 
brilliancy and precision of a little flageolet, in 
so much that it amounted to quite a curiously 


6G 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


pretty accomplishment, and you would have 
wondered how a gentleman w'ith so unmistakable 
a vein of the miscreant in him, could make 
such sweet and bird-like music. 

A little boy riding a tired donkey into Car- 
dyllian, pointed out to him the gate of the old 
place, and with a jaunty step, twirling his cane, 
and Avhistling as he went, he reached the open 
space before tlie door-steps. 

The surly servant who happened to see him 
as he hesitated and gaped at the windows, came 
forth, and challenged him with tones and looks 
the reverse of hospitable. 

“Oh! Mrs. Mervyn?” said he; well, she 
doesn’t live here. Get ye round that corner 
there, and you’ll see the steward’s house with a 
hatch-door to it, and you may ring the bell, and 
leave, d’ye mind, by the back way. You can 
follow the road by the rear o’ the house.” 

So saying, he warned him off peremptorily 
with a flunkey’s contempt for a mock gentleman, 
and the sallow man with the black eyes and 
beard, not at all put out by that slight treatment, 
for he had seen all sorts of adventures, and had 
learned unaffectedly to despise contempt, walk- 
ed listlessly round the corner of the old house, 
with a somewhat knock-kneed and ungainly 
stride, on which our bandy friend sneered 
gruffly. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MR. LEVI VISITS MRS. MERVYN. 

And now the stranger stood before the stew- 
ard’s house, which is an old stone building, just 
two stories high, with but few rooms, and heavy 
stone shafts to the windows, with little diamond 
lattices in them, all stained and gray with age — 
antiquaries assign it to the period of Henry 
VII. — and when the Jewish gentleman, his 
wide, loose mouth smiling in solitary expecta- 
tion, slapped and rattled his cane upon the 
planks of the hatch, as people in old times 
called “house!” to summon the servants, he 
was violating the monastic silence of a building 
as old as the by-gone friars, with their matin 
bells and solemn chants. 

A little Welsh girl looked over the clumsy 
bannister, and ran up with his message to Mrs. 
Mervyn. 

“ Will you please come up stairs, sir, to the 
drawing-room?” asked the child. 

He was amused at the notion of a “ drawing- 
room” in such a place^ and with a lazy sneer 
climbed the stairs after her. 

This drawing-room was very dark at this hour, 
except for the patch of red light that came 
through the lattice and rested on the old cup- 
board opposite, on which stood, shelf above 
shelf, a grove of colored delft candlesticks, tea- 
cups, jugs, men, women, tea-pots, and beasts, 
all in an old-world style, a decoration which 
prevails in humble Welsh chambers, and which 
here was a property of the house forgotten, I 


presume, by the great house of Verney, and 
transmitted from tenant to tenant, with the lum- 
bering furniture. 

The flighty old lady, Mrs. Mervyn of the 
large eyes, received him with an old-fashioned 
politeness and formality which did not in the 
least embarrass her visitor, who sat himself 
down, smiling his moist, lazy smile, with his 
knees protruded under the table, on which his 
elbows rested, and with his heels on the rung of 
his chair, while his hat and cane lay glimmer- 
ing in the sun-light beside him. 

‘ ‘ The maid, I think, forgot to mention your 
name, sir ?” said the old lady gently, but in a 
tone of inquiry. 

“Very like, ma’am — very like, indeed— be- 
cause, I think, I forgot to mention my name to 
her, ” he drawled pleasantly. ‘ ‘ I’ve taken a deal 
of trouble — I have — to find you out, ma’am, and 
two hundred and twenty-five miles here, ma’am, 
and that same back again — a journey of four hun- 
dred and fifty miles — is not just nothing. I’m 
glad to see you, ma’am — happy to find you in your 
drawing-room, ma’am — hope you find 3 ^ourself 
well, ma’am, as your numerous friends could 
wish you. My name, ma’am, is Levi, being 
junior governor of the firm of Goldshed & Levi, 
well known on ’Change, ma’am, and justly ap- 
preciated by a large circle of friends, as you 
may read upon this card.” 

The card which he tendered did not, it must 
be allowed, speak of these admiring friends, 
but simply announced that “ Goldshed & Levi” 
were “ Stock-Brokers,” pursuing their calling at 
“Offices — 10, Scroop Street, Gimmel Lane,” 
in the City. And having held this card before 
her eyes for a sufficient time, he put it into his 
pocket. 

“ You see, ma’am, I’ve come all this way for 
our house, to ask you whether you would like to 
hear some news of your governor, ma’am ?” 

“Of whom, sir ?” inquired the tall old lady, 
who had remained standing all this time, as she 
had received him, and was now looking at him 
with eyes, not of suspicion, but of undisguised 
fear. 

“ Of your husband, ma’am, I mean,” drawled 
he, eyeing her with his cunning smile. 

“You don’t mean, sir—” said she faintly, and 
thereupon she was seized with a trembling, and 
sat down, and her very lips turned white, and 
Mr. Levi began to think “ the old girl was look- 
ing uncommon queerish, ” and did not like the 
idea of “ its happening,” under these circum- 
stances. 

“There, ma’am — don’t take on! Where’s 
the water ? Da-a-a-mn the drop !” he exclaim- 
ed, turning up mugs and jugs in a fluriy. “ I 
say — Mary Anne — Jane — chick-a-biddy — girl — 
be alive there, will ye ?” howled the visitor over 
the bannister. “Water, can’t ye ? Old woman’s 
sick !” 

“ Better now, sir — better — just open that — a 
little air, please,” the old lady whispered. 

With some hurried fumbling he succeeded in 
getting the lattice open. 


THE TENxLNTS OF MALORY. 


67 


‘‘ Water, will j^ou? What a time you’re about 
it, da-a-am little beast!” he bawled in the face 
of the child. 

“Much better, thanks — very much better,” 
whispered the old lady. 

“Of course, you’re better, ma’am. Here it is 
at la-a-ast. Have some water, ma’am ? Do. 
Give her the water, you little fool.” 

She sipped a little. 

“ Coming round — all right,” he said tenderly. 
“What cattle them old women are! da-a-am 
them.” A little pause followed. 

“A deal better now, ma’am ?” 

“I’m startled, sir.” 

“ Of course, you’re startled, ma’am.” 

“And faint, sir.” 

“ Why not, ma’am?” 

Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn breathed three or four 
great sighs, and began to look again like a liv- 
ing woman. 

“ Now she looks quite nice (he pronounced 
it ni-i-ishe), doesn’t she ? You may make tracksh 
young woman ; go, will you?” 

“I feel so much better,” said the old lady 
when they were alone. 

‘ ‘ You do — quite — ever so much better. Shall 
I go on?” 

“ Pray do, sir.” 

“ Well now see, if I do, there must be no more 
of that, old lady. If you can’t talk of the gover- 
nor, we’ll just let him alone,” said Levi sturdily. 

“For God’s sake, sir, if you mean my hus- 
band, tell me all you know.” 

“All aint a great deal, ma’am ; but a cove 
has turned up as knew him well.” 

“ Some one who knew him ?” 

“Just so, ma’am.” He balanced whether he 
should tell her that he was dead or not, but de- 
cided that it would be more convenient, though 
less tragic, to avoid getting up a new scene like 
the other, so he modified his narrative. “He’s 
turned up, ma’am, and knew him very intimate ; 
and has got a meogny (he so pronounced ma- 
hogany) desk of his, gave in charge to him, 
since he could not come home at present, con- 
taining a law paper, ma’am, making over to his 
son and yours some property in England.” 

“ Then, he is not coming?” said she. 

“ Not azh I knowzh, ma’am.” 

“He has been a long time away,” she con- 
tinued. 

“ So I’m informed, ma’am,” he observed. 

“ I’ll tell you how it was, and when he went 
away.” 

“Thank ye, ma’am,” he interposed. “I’ve 
heard — melancholy case, ma’am ; got seven 
penn’orth, didn’t he, and never turned up 
again?” 

“ Seven what, sir?” 

“ Seven years, ma’am ; seven penn’orth we 
call it ma’am, familiar-like.” 

“I don’t understand you, sir — I don’t know 
what it means ; I saw him sail away. It went 
off, off, off.” 

“I’ll bet a pound it did, ma’am,” said Mr. 
Levi. 


‘ ‘ Only to be for a very short time ; the sail — 
I could see it very far — how pretty they look on 
the sea ; but very lonely, I think — too lonely.” 

‘ ‘A touch of solitary, ma’am,” acquiesced Levi. 

“ Away, in the yacht,” she dreamed on. 

“The royal yacht, ma’am, no doubt.” 

“ The yacht, we called it. He said he would 
return next day ; and it went round Pendillion 
— round the headland of Pendillion, I lost it, 
and it never came again ; but I think it will, sir 
— don’t you? Pm sure it will — he was so con- 
fident; only smiled and nodded, and he said, 

‘ No, I won’t say good-bye.’ He would not have 
said that if he did not mean to return — he could 
not so deceive a lonely poor thing like me, that 
adored him.” 

“No he couldn’t, ma’am, not he: no man 
could. Betray the girl that adored him ! Ba-a-ah ! 
impossible,” replied Mr. Levi, and shook his glos- 
sy ringlets sleepily, and dropped his eyelids, 
smiling. This old girl amused him, her romance 
was such a joke. But the light was perceptibly 
growing more dusky, and business must not wait 
upon fun, so Mr. Levi said — 

“ He’sh no shicken by this time, ma’am — your 
son, ma’am ; I’m told he’sh twenty-sheven yearsh 
old — thatsh no shicken — twenty-sheven next 
birthday.” 

“ Do you know any thing of him, sir? Oh, 
no, he doesn’t, ” she said, looking dreamily with 
her great sad eyes upon him. 

“Jest you tell me, ma’am, where was he bap- 
tized, and by what name ?” said her visitor. 

A look of doubt and fear came slowly and 
wildly into her face as she looked at him. 

“ Who is he — I’ve been speaking to you, sir ?” 

“Oh! yesh, mo-o-ost beautiful^ you ’av, 
ma’am,” answered he; “and I am your son’s 
best friend — and yours, ma’am ; only you tell 
me where to find him, and lie’sh a made man, 
for all hizh dayzh.” 

“Where has he come from? — a stranger,” 
she murmured. 

“I toldyovL, ma’am.” 

“ I don’t know you, sir ; I don’t know your 
name,” she dreamed on. 

“Benjamin Levi. I’ll spell it for you if you 
like, ” he answered, beginning to grow testy. ‘ ‘ I 
told you my name, and showed you my ca-a-ard. 
Bah ! it ravels at one end, as fast as it knits at 
the other.” 

And again, he held the card of the firm of 
Goldshed & Levi, with his elbows on the table, 
between the fingers of his right and left hand, 
bowed out like an old-fashioned shop-board, and 
looking as if it would spring out elastically into 
her face. 

“ Tliere^ ma’am, that’sh the ticket!” said he, 
eyeing her over it. 

“ Once, sir, I spoke of business to a stranger, 
and I was always sorry; I did mischief,” said 
the old woman with a vague remorsefulness. 

“ I’m no stranger, ma’am, begging your parv 
don,” he replied insolently; “you don’t half 
know what you’re saying, I do think. Goldshed 
& Levi — not know us ; sich precious rot, I never 


G8 


THE TENANTS 0^^ MALOEY. 


“I did mischief, sir.” 

“I only want to know where to find your 
son, ma’am, if you know, and if you won’t tell, 
you ruin that poor young man. It ain’t a pound 
to me, but it’sh a deal to him,” answered the 
good-natured Mr. Levi. 

“ I’m very sorry, sir, but I once did mischief 
by speaking to a gentleman whom I didn’t know. 
Lady Verney made me promise, and I’m sure 
she was right, never to speak about business 
without first consulting some member of her 
family. I don’t understand business — never 
did,” pleaded she. 

“Well, here’s a go ! not understaan’? Why, 
there’s nothing to understaan’. It isn’t business. 
S-o-N, ” he spelt, ‘ ‘ son. H-u-s-b-a-n-d — uzbaan! 
— that ain’t business — da-a-am me ! Whore's 
the business ? Baah !” 

“ Sir,” said the old lady, drawing herself up, 
“ I’ve answered you. It was about my husband — 
God help me — I spoke before, and did mischief 
without knowing it. I won’t speak of him to 
strangers, except as Lady Verney advises — to 
any stranger — especially to you, sir.” 

There was a sound of steps outside, which,per- 
haps, modified the answer of Mr. Levi. He was 
very much chagrined, and his great black eyes 
looked very wickedly upon her helpless face. 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! as you please, ma’am. It isn’t 
the turn of a shilling to but you ru-in the 
poo~or young man, your son, for da-a-am me, if I 
touch his bushinesh again, if it falls through notu ; 
mind you that. So having ruined jouy own flesh 
and blood, you tell me to go as I came. It’s 
nauthing to me — mind that — but ru-in to him ; 
here’s my hat and stick — I’m going, only just 
I’ll give you one chance more for that poor 
young man, just a minute to think again.” Ho 
had stood up, with his hat and cane in his hand. 
“Just one chance — you’ll be sending for me 
again, and I won’t come. No — no — never, 
da-a-am me!” 

“Good-evening, sir, ’’said the lady. 

Mr. Levi bit his thumb nail. 

‘ ‘ You don’t know what you’re doing, ma’am,” 
said he, trying once more. 

“I can’t, sir — I caw’^,”she said distractedly. 

“ Come, think — I’m going — going ; just think 
— what do you shay ?” 

He waited. 

“ I won’t speak, sir.” 

“You won’t?” 

“No, sir.” 

He lingered for a moment, and the red sun- 
light showed like a flush of anger on his sallow 
face. Then, with an insolent laugh, he turned, 
sticking his hat on his head, and walked down 
the stairs, singing. 

Outside the hatch, he paused for a second. 

“ I’ll get it all another W'ay,” he thought. 
“Eound here,” he said, “wasn’t it — the back 
way. Good-evening, you stupid, old, da-a-am, 
crazy cat,” and he saluted the windows of the 
steward’s house with a vicious twitch of his 
cane. 


CHAPTEE XXIX. 

MR. BENJAMIN LEVI RECOGNIZES AN AC- 
QUAINTANCE. 

Mr. Benjamin Levi, having turned the cor- 
ner of the steward’s house, found himself before 
two great piers, passing through the gate of which 
he entered the stable-yard, at the farther side of 
which was a second gate, which he rightly con-- 
jectured would give him access to that back 
avenue through which he meant to make his 
exit. 

He glaneed round this great quadrangle, one 
end of which was overlooked by the rear of the 
old house, and that quaint old refectory with its 
clumsy flight of stone steps, from the windows 
of which our friend Sedley had observed the 
ladies of Malory wliile engaged in their garden 
work. 

There w^as grass growing betw’een the paving 
stones, and moss upon the walls, and the stable 
doors were decaying upon their rusty hinges. 
Commenting, as so practical a genius naturally 
would, upon the surrounding capabilities and 
decay, Mr. Levi had nearly traversed this soli- 
tude when he heard some one call, “ Thomas 
Jones!” twice or thrice, and the tones of the 
voice arrested him instantly. 

He was a man with a turn for musical busi- 
ness, and not only dabbled in concerts and little 
operatic speculations, but, having a naturally 
musical ear, had a retentive memory for voices 
— and this blind man’s faculty stood him in stead 
here, for, with a malicious thrill of wonder and 
delight, he instantly recognized this voice. 

The door of that smaller yard which is next 
the house opened now, and Sir Booth Eanshaw^e 
entered, bawling with increased impatience — 
“ Thomas Jones !” 

Sir Booth’s eye lighted on the figure of Mr. 
Levi, as he stood close by the wall at the other 
side, hoping to escape observation. 

With the same instinct Sir Booth stepped 
backw’ard hastily into an open stable door, and 
Mr. Levi skipped into another door, within which, 
unfortunately, a chained dog, Neptune, was doz- 
ing. 

The dog flew the length of his tether at hlr. 
Levi’s legs, and the Jewish gentleman sprang 
forth more hastily even than he had entered. 

At the same moment. Sir Booth’s pride de- 
termined his vacillation, and he strode boldly 
forward and said — 

“I think I know you sir; don’t I?” 

As there was still some little distance betw’een 
them, Mr. Levi affected near-sightedness, and, 
compressing his eyelids, smiled dubiously, and 
said — 

“Eayther think not, sir. No, sir — I’m a 
stranger ; my name is Levi — of Goldshed & Levi 
— and I’ve been to see Mrs. Mervyn, who lives 
here, about her young man. I don’t know you, 
sir — no — it is a mishtake.” 

“No, Mr. Levi — you do know me — ^by — ^}'0u 
do,” replied Sir Booth, approaching, while his\ 
fingers clutched at his walking-stick with an 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


G9 


uneasy gi'ipo, as if he would have liked to exer- 
cise it upon the shoulders of the Israelite. 

“ Oh ! crikey ! Ay, to be sure — why, it’s Sir 
Booth Fanshawe! I beg pardon, Sir Booth. 
We thought you were in France ; but no mat- 
ter, Sir Booth Fanshawe, none in the world, for 
all that little bushiness is blown over, quite. 
We have no interest — no more than your horse 
— in them little securities, by — ; we sold them 
two months ago to Sholomons ; we were glad to 
sell them to Sholomons, daam him ; he hit us 
hard with some of Wilbraham & Cumming’s 
paper, and I don’t care, by — , if he never sees a 
shilling of it — we would rather like it.” And 
Mr. Levi again made oath to that confession of 
feeling. 

‘‘Will you .come into the house and have a 
glass of sherry or something ?” said Sir Booth 
on reflection. 

“ Well, I don’t mind,” said Mr. Levi. 

And in he went and had a glass of sherry and 
a biscuit, and grew friendly and confidential. 

“Don’t you be running up to tOAvn, Sir Booth 
— Sholomons is looking for you. Clever man, 
Sholomons, and you should get quietly out of 
this country as soon as you conveniently can. 
He thinks you’re in France now. He sent 
Rogers — 3^11 know Rogers ?” 

He paused so long here that Sir Booth had 
to answer “No.” 

“Well, he sent him — a good man, Rogers, 
3^011 know, but drinks a bit — after 3mu to Viclw, 
ha, ha, ha ! By’ — , it was rich. Daam Sholo- 
mons. It was worth a pound to see his face — 
ugly fellow. You know Sholomons?” 

And so Mr. Levi entertained his host, who 
neither loved nor trusted him, and at his de- 
parture gave him all sorts of friendly warnings, 
and sly hints, and walked and ran partly to the 
“ George,” and got a two-horse vehicle as quick- 
ly as they could harness the horses, and drove 
at great speed to Lluinan, where he telegraphed 
to his partner to send a writ down by next train 
for Sir Booth, the message being from Benjamin 
Levi, George Inn, Card3fllian, to Goldshed & Le- 
vi, etc., etc., London. 

Mr. Levi took his ease in his inn, sipped a 
good deal of brandy and water, and smoked many 
cigars, with a serene mind and pleasant anticipa- 
tions, for, if nothing went wrong, the telegram 
would be in his partner’s hand in ample time to 
enable him, with his accustomed diligence, to 
send down a “beak” with the necessary docu- 
ments by the night train, who would reach Car- 
dyllian early, and pay his little visit at Malory 
by nine o’clock in the morning. 

Mr. Levi, as prosperous gentlemen will, felt 
his solitude, though luxurious, too dull for the 
effervescence of liis spirits, and having question- 
ed his host as to the amusements of Card3dlian, 
found that its normal resources of that nature 
were confined to the billiard and reading-rooms, 
where, on pa3'ment of a trifling benefaction to 
the institution, he enjoyed, as a “visitor,” the 
exhilarating privileges of a member of the Club. 

In the billiard-room, according!}’, that night. 


was the fragrance of Mr. Levi’s cheroot agreeably 
perceptible, the sonorous drawl of his peculiar 
accent vocal among pleasanter intonations, 
and his “cuts,” “double doubles,” and “long 
crosses,” painfully admired by the gentlemen 
whose shillings he pocketed at pool. And it 
was pleasant to his exquisitely commercial gen- 
ius to think that the contributions of the gen- 
tlemen to whom he had “given a lesson,” and 
whose “eyes he had opened,” would constitute 
a fund sufficient to pay his expenses at the 
“George,” and even to leave something toward 
his return fare to London. 

The invalid who was suffering from asthma 
in the bedroom next his was disturbed by his 
ejaculations as he undressed, and by his repeated 
bursts of laughter, and rang his bell and implored 
the servant to beg of the gentlemen who were 
conversing in the next room to make a little less 
noise, in consideration of his indisposition. 

The manner in which he had “potted” 
the gentlemen in the billiard-room, right and 
left, and the uncomfortable admiration of his 
successes exhibited in their innocent counte- 
nances, had, no doubt, something to do with 
these explosions of merriment. But the chief 
source of his amusement was the anticipated 
surprise of Sir Booth, when the little domicilia- 
ry visit of the next morning should take place, 
and the recollection of his own adroitness in 
mystifying the Baronet. 

So he fell into a sweet slumber, uncrossed by 
even an ominous dream, not knowing that the 
shrewd old bird for whom his chaff was spread 
and his pot simmering had already flown with 
the scream of the whistle on the w'ings of the 
night train to Chester, and from that centre to 
an unknown n.ook, whence, in a day or two 
more, he had flitted to some continental roost, 
which even clever Mr. Levi could not guess. 

Next morning early, the ladies were on their 
way to London, through which they W’ere to 
continue their journey, and to join Sir Booth 
abroad. 

Two persons were, therefore, very much dis- 
appointed next day at Malory ; but it could not 
be helped. One was Cleve Verney, who tried 
the inexorable secrecy of the servant in every 
way, but in vain ; possibly because the servant 
did not himself know where “ the flxmily” were 
gone. The other was Mr. Benjamin Levi, who 
resented Sir Booth’s selfish duplicity with an 
exasperation which would hardly have been ap- 
peased by burning that “ daam’ old mizzled 
bankrupt robber” alive. 

Mr. Levi flew to Chester with his “ beak” in 
a third-class carriage, and thence radiated tele- 
graphic orders and entreaties affecting Sir Booth 
wherever he had a friend, and read3% on a hint 
by the wires, to unleash his bailiff on his track, 
and fix him on the soil, immovable as the petri- 
fied witch of Mucklestane Muir, by the spell of 
his parchment legend. 

But no gleam of light rewarded his labors. 
It was enough to ruffle even Mr. Levi’s temper, 
wliich, accordingl3’, was ruffled. To have been 


70 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


so near ! To have had his hand, as it were, 
upon the bird. If he had only had the writ 
himself in his pocket he might have dropped, 
with his own fingers, that grain of salt upon his 
tail. But it was not to be. At the moment of 
possession, Mr. Levi was balked. He could 
grind curses under his white teeth, and did not 
spare them now. Some of them were, I dare say, 
worthy of that agile witch, “ Cuttie Sark,” as 
she stood baffled on the keystone of the bridge, 
with Meggie’s severed tail in her quivering gripe. 

In the mean time, for Cleve Verney, Malory 
is stricken with a sudden blight. Its woods are 
enchanted no longer ; it is dark now, and empty. 
His heart aches when he looks at it. 

He missed his accustomed walk with the 
Etherage girls. He wrote to tell old Vane 
Etherage that he was suffering from a severe 
cold, and could not dine with him, as he had 
promised. The cold was a lie — but was he real- 
ly well ? Are the spirits no part of health ; and 
where were his ? 

About a fortnight later, came a letter from his 
good friend, Miss Sheckleton. How delight- 
fully interesting, though it contained next to 
nothing. But how interesting ! How often he 
read it through ! How every solitary moment 
v/as improved by a glance into it ! 

It was a foreign letter. It would be posted, 
she said, by a friend in Paris. She could not 
yet tell, even to a friend so kind as he, the ad- 
dress which would find them. She hoped, hoAv- 
cver, verij soon to be at liberty to do so. All 
w'ere Avell. Her young friend had never alluded 
since to the subject of the last painful interview. 
She, Miss Sheckleton, could not, unless a favor- 
able opening presented, well invite a conversation 
on the matter. She had no doubt, however, that 
an opportunity would occur. She understood 
the peculiar character of her beautiful young 
cousin, and saAV a difficulty, and CA^en danger, in 
pressing the question upon her, possibly prema- 
turely. When he, Cleve, Avrote — Avhich she sup- 
posed he would so soon as he Avas in possession 
of her address — he could state exactly what he 
Avished her to say. MeanAvhile, although as she 
had before hinted, dear Margaret Avas admired 
and sought by a man both of rank and fortune, 
Avith very great constancy (she thought it not 
improbable that Cleve had already suspected 
■that affair), there Avas in her opinion nothing to 
apprehend, at least at present, in that gentle- 
man’s suit — flattered, of course, she must be by 
a constancy so devoted ; but she hardly thought 
there Avas a chance that the feeling Avould groAv 
to any thing beyond that. So she bid God bless 
him, and Avrote Anne Sheckleton at the foot of 
the page. * 

The physician who, mistaking a complaint, 
administers precisely the concoction Avhich de- 
bilitates the failing organ, or inflames the tor- 
tured nerve, commits just such an innocent cru- 
elty as good Miss Sheckleton practiced, at the 
close of her letter, upon Clev^e Verney. 

She had fancied that he knew something of 
the suit to Avhich she referred for the purpose 


of relieA'ing an anxiety to AAfflich her thoughtful 
allusion introduced him, in fact, for the first 
time. 

Who was this faithful SAA^ain? He kneAv 
enough of Sir Booth Eanshawe’s surroundings, 
his friends and intimates, to count up four, or 
five, or six possible rivals. He kneyv Avhat per- 
severance might accomplish, and absence might 
undo, and his heart was disquieted within him. 

If he had consulted his instinct, he Avould have 
left Ware forth Avith, and pursued to the Conti- 
nent, and searched eA'ery toAvn in France ; but 
he could not act quite according to impulse. He 
had told the Cardyllian people that he was not 
to leave Ware till the fourteenth ; would no re- 
mark attend his sudden departure, folloAving 
immediately upon the mysterious flitting of the 
Malory people ? He kneAV Avhat Avonderful sto- 
ries might tliereupon arise in Cardyllian, and 
how sure they Avould be, one Avay or another, to 
reach his uncle Kiffyn, and hoAV that statesman’s 
suspicions might embarrass him. Then a letter 
might easily reach Ware Avhile he was away, and 
be lost, or Avorse. 

So he resolved to see out the rest of his time 
Avhere he AA^as. In Cardyllian Church, hoAV dark 
and cold looked the caAUty of the Maloiy peAv ! 
The saints and martyrs in the great eastern Avin- 
doAV Avere subdued, and would not gloAv, and 
their glories did not burn, but only smouldered 
that day. And oh ! how long Avas Doctor Splay- 
foot’s sermon ! And hoAv vague Avas his appre- 
hension of the ‘‘yarn” to which Miss Charity 
Etherage treated him all the Avay from the church 
porch to the top of Castle Street. 

He Avas glad Avhen the fifteenth, Avhich Avas to 
call him aAvay from Ware, approached. He aa'us 
glad to leave this changed place, glad to go to 
London — anywhere. 

Just as all Avas ready for his flight by the 
night train, on the evening of the 14th, to his 
great joy came a letter, a note almost, so short, 
from kind Anne Sheckleton. 

xill — underlined — Avere well. There was 
nothing more, in fact, but one satisfactory revela- 
tion, which Avas the address Avhich Avould now 
find them. 

So Cleve Verney made the journey to London 
that night in better spirits. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A COUNCIL OF THREE. 

Messrs. Goldshed & Leah have a neat office 
in Leadenhall Street. As stock-brokers, strictly, 
they don’t, I am told, do any thing like so large 
a business as many of their brethren. Those 
brethren, for the most part, are not proud of 
them. Their business is of a someAvhat contra- 
band sort. They have been examined once or 
tAvice uncomfortably before Parliamentary Com- 
mittees. They have been saA^agely handled by 
the great Mr. Hackle, the Parliamentary counsel. 
In the great insurance case of “ The Executors 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


71 


of Sliakerly v. The Philanthropic Union Com- 
pany,” they were hideously mangled and evis- 
cerated by Sergeant Bilhooke, whose powers are 
well known. They have been called “harpies,” 
“ghouls,” “Madagascar bats,” “vermin,” 
“wolves,” and “mousing owls,” and are no- 
thing the worse of it. Some people think, on 
the contrary, rather the better, as it has helped 
to advertise them in their particular line, which 
is in a puffing, rigging, fishy, speculative, “queer- 
ish” business, at which moral stock-brokers turn 
up their eyes and noses, to the amusement of 
Messrs. Goldshed & Levi, who have — although 
the sober office in Leadenhall Street looks some- 
times a little neglected — no end of valuable 
clients, of the particular kind whom they covet, 
and who frequent the other office, in Wormwood 
Court, which looks so dirty, mean, and neglected, 
and yet is the real seat of power. 

The “ office” in Wormwood Court is an old- 
fashioned, narrow-fronted, dingy house. It 
stands apart, and keeps its own secrets, having 
an uninhabited warehouse at one side, and a 
shabby timber-yard at the other. In front is a 
flagged court-yard, with dingy grass sprouting 
here and there, and lines of slimy moss, grimed 
with soot. 

The gate is, I believe, never opened — I don’t 
know that its hinges would work now. If you 
have private business with the firm on a wet 
day, you must jump out of your cab in the street, 
and run up through the side door, through the 
rain, over the puddled flags, and by the famous 
log of mahogany which the Messrs. Goldshed 
& Levi and their predecessors have sold, in bill 
transactions, nearly six thousand distinct times, 
without ever losing sight of it. 

In the street this day there stood a cab at 
that door. Mr. Jos. Larkin, the Gylingden attor- 
ney, was in consultation with the firm. They 
were sitting in “the office,” the front room 
which you enter at your right from the hall. A 
high, old-fashioned chimney-piece cuts off the 
far angle of the room, obliquely. It is wainscot- 
ed in wood, in tiny square panels, except over 
tlie fire-place, where one great panel runs across, 
and up to the ceiling, with somebody’s coat of 
arms carved in relief upon it. This wood-work 
has been painted white, long ago, but the tint 
has degenerated to a cream or buff color, and a 
good washing would do it no harm. You can 
see the original oak where the hat-rack was re- 
moved, near the window, as also in those places 
where gentlemen have cut their names or in- 
itials. 

The window is covered with dust and dirt, 
beaten by the rain into all sorts of patterns. A 
chastened light enters through this screen, and 
you can’t see from without who is in the room. 

People wonder why Messrs. Goldshed & 
Levi, with so well appointed an office in Lcad- 
enhall Street, will keep this private office in so 
beggarly a state ; without a carpet, only a strip 
of nearly obliterated oil-cloth on its dirty floor. 
Along the centre of the room extends a great 
old, battered, oblong mahogany quadrangle, full 


of drawers, with dingy brass handles, and having 
midway a sort of archway, like a bridge under a 
railway embankment, covered with oil-cloth of 
an undistinguishable pattern, blotched with old 
stains of red ink and black, and dribblings of 
sealing-wax, curling up here and there dustily, 
where office-knives, in fiddling fingers, had scar- 
red its skin. On the top of this are two clumsy 
desks. Behind one sits the junior partner, on 
a high wooden stool, and behind the other the 
senior, on a battered office-chair, with one of its 
hair-cloth angles protruding, like the corner of a 
cocked hat, in front, dividing the short, thick 
legs of Mr. Goldshed, whose heels were planted 
on the rungs, bending his clumsy knees, and re- 
minding one of the attitude in which an indif- 
ferent rider tries to keep his seat on a restive 
horse. 

Goldshed is the senior in every sense. He is 
bald, he is fat, he is short. He has gems on his 
stumpy fingers, and golden chains, in loops and 
curves, cross the old black velvet waistcoat, 
which is always wrinkled upward by the habit 
he has of thrusting his broad, short hands into 
his trowsers pockets. 

At the other side, leaning back in his chair, 
and offering, he flatters himself, a distinguished 
contrast to the vulgar persons opposite, sat Mr. 
Jos. Larkin, of the Lodge, Gylingden. His tall, 
bald head was thrown a little back ; one arm, 
in its glossy black sleeve, hung over the back of 
his chair, with his large red knuckles near the 
floor. His pink eyes wore their meek and dove- 
like expression ; his mouth a little open, in re- 
pose; an air of resignation and beatitude, which, 
together with his well-known elegance, his long, 
lavender-tinted trowsers, and ribbed silk waist- 
coat of the same favorite hue, presented a very 
perfect picture, in this vulgar Jewish setting, of 
a perfect Christian gentleman. 

‘ ‘ If every thing favors, Mr. Goldshed, Mr. 
Dingwell may be in town to-morrow evening. 
He sends for me immediately on his arrival, to 
my quarters, you understand, and I will send 
him on to you, and you to Mrs. Sarah Rumble’s 
lodgings.” 

“A/zsA Rumble,” drawled Goldshed; “not 
married — a girl, Mish" 

“Yes, Mrs, Rumble,” continued Larkin, gen- 
tly ; “ there’s no harm in saying Mrs. ; many 
ladies in a position of responsibility prefer that 
style to Miss, for obvious reasons.” 

Here Goldshed, who was smiling lazily, wink- 
ed at his junior, who returned that signal in 
safety, for Mr. Larkin, whose countenance was 
raised tow’ard the ceiling, had closed his eyes. 
The chaste attorney’s discretion amused them, 
for Miss Sarah Rumble was an industrious, care- 
worn girl of two-and-fifty, taciturn, and with a 
brown pug face, and tresses somewhat silvery. 

“ We are told by the apostle,” continued Mr. 
Larkin, musingly, “not only to avoid evil, but 
the appearance of evil. I forgot, however, our 
religions differ.” 

“Yash, yash, our religions differ,” he says; 
“ they differ, Levi, don’t they ?” 


72 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY, 


“Yash, they do,” drawled that theologian. 

“ Yash, they do ; we see our way to that,” 
concluded Goldshed. 

Larkin sighed. 

There was a short silence here. Mr. Larkin 
opening his pink eyelids, and showing his small, 
light blue eyes, while he maintained his easy and 
gentlemanlike attitude. 

The senior member of the firm looked down 
on his desk thoughtfully, and picked at an old 
drop of sealing-wax with his office-knife, and 
whistled a few slow bars, and Mr. Levi, looking 
down also, scribbled the cipher of the firm nine- 
teen times, with flourishes, on a piece of paper. 

Mr. Goldshed worked his short thick knees 
and his heels a little uneasily ; the office-chair 
was growing a little bit frisky, it seemed. 

“ Nishe shailiiig, Mr. Larkin, and oh, dear! 
a great lot of delicashy ! What do you think?” 
said Mr. Goldshed, lifting up the office-knife, 
with the edge toward the attorney, and'letting it 
fall back two or three times, between his finger 
thumb, dubiously. “The parties being swells, 
niakesh it more delicate — ticklish — ticklish ; do 
you shinsherely think it’s all quite straight ?” 

“ Of course, it’s straight. I sliould hope, Mr. 
Goldshed, I have never advised any course that 
was not so,” said Mr. Larkin loftily. 

“I don’t mean religious — law blesh you — I 
mean said Mr. Goldshed, soothingly. 

A little pink flush touched the tall, bald fore- 
head of the attorney. 

“ Whatever is right, sir, is safe ; and that, I 
think, can hardly be wrong — I hope not — by 
which all parties are benefited,” said the at- 
torney. 

‘ ‘ All parties be da-a-amn — except our- 
shelves. I’m thinking of myshelf — and Mr. 
Le«i, here — and, of courshe, of you. Very much 
of you,” he added, courteously. 

Mr. Lai:kin acknowledged his care by a faint 
meek bow. 

“They’re swells,” repeated Mr. Goldshed. 

“He saysh they’re swelsh,” repeated Mr. 
Levi, whose grave look had something of the air 
of a bully in it, fixing his dark prominent eyes 
on Mr. Larkin, and turning his cheek that way 
a little, also. “There’s a danger in handling a 
swtill — in them matters especially.” 

“ Suppose theresh a contempt ?” said Mr. 
Goldshed, whose chair grew restive, and required 
management as he spoke. 

“ He saysh a contempt^"' repeated Mr. Levi, 
“ or shomething worse — by — ” 

“ I’ll guarantee you for twopence, Mr. Levi ; 
and pray consider me, and do not swear,” urged 
Mr. Larkin. 

“If you guarantee us, with a penalty,” began 
]Mr. Levi, who chose to take him literally. 

“I said that, of course, Mr. Levi, by way of 
illustration only ; no one, of course, dreams of 
guaranteeing another without a proper consid- 
eration. I should have hoped you could not 
have misunderstood me. I don’t understand 
guarantees, it is a business I have never touch- 
er]. I’m content, I hope, with the emoluments 


of my profession, and what my landed property 
gives me. I only mean this — that there is no 
risk. What do ive know of Mr. Dingwell, that 
is not perfectly above-board — perfectly ? I chal- 
lenge the world upon that. If any thing should 
happen to fall through, we, surely, are not to 
blame. At the same time if you — looking at it 
with your experience — apprehend any risk, of 
course I couldn’t think of allowing you to go 
on. I can arrange, this evening, and not very 
far from this house, either.” 

As Mr. Larkin concluded, he made a feint of 
rising. 

“ Baah !” exclaimed Levi. “ You don’t tlunk 
we want to back out of thish transhaction, Mr. 
Larkin ? wo-o-oh ! That’s not the trick of thish 
ofiishe — is it gov’nor? He saysh wo.” 

“ No,” echoed Goldshed. 

“No, never — noways! you hear him?” reit- 
erated Mr. Levi. ,“In for a penny, in for a 
pound — in for a shilling, in for a thousand. 
Baah! — No, never.” 

“No, noways — never!” reverberated Gold- 
shed, in deep, metallic tones. “ But Levi, 
there, must look an inch or two before his noshe 
— and sho must I — and sho, my very good friend, 
Mr. Larkin, must you — a bit before your noshe. 
I don’t see no great danger. We all know, the 
Honorable Arthur Yerney is dead. We are sure 
of that — and all the rest is not worth the odd 
ha’pensh in that book,’’ and he touched the 
mighty ledger lying by him, in which millions 
were entered. “The rest is Dingwell’s affair.” 

“Just so, Mr. Goldshed,” acquiesced Mr. Lar- 
kin. “ We go together in that view.” 

“ Da-a-am Dingwell! — what need we care 
for Dingwell?” tolled out Mr. Goldshed, with 
his ringing bass. 

“Baah \^da-a-am him !” echoed the junior. 

“ Yes — a — quite as you say — but where’s the 
good of imprecation ? With that exception, I 
quitQ;,.go with you. It’s Dingwell’s affair — not 
oursf We, of course, go straight — and I cer- 
tainly have no reason to suspect Dingwell of 
any thing crooked or unworthy.” 

“ Oh, no — baah ! — nothing /” said Levi. 

“ Nor I,” added Goldshed. 

“It’sh delicate — it izh delicate — but very 
promishing,” said Mr. Goldshed, who was 
moistening a cigar in his great lips. “ Very — 
and wo-thing crooked about it.” 

“ No-thing crooked — no repeated Mr. Levi, 
shaking his glossy curls slowly. “But very 
delicate.” 

“ Then, gentlemen, it’s understood — I’m at lib- 
erty to assume — that Mr. Dingwell finds one or 
other of you here whenever he calls after dark, 
and you’ll arrange at once about the little pay- 
ments.” 

To which the firm having promptly assented, 
Mr. Larkin took his leave, and, being a client ^ 
of consideration, was accompanied to the shalSf* 
by door-step by Mr. Levi, who, standing at the 
hall door, with his hands in his pockets, nodded 
slyly to him across the flagged court-yard, into 
the cab window, in a way which Mr. Jos. Lar- 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


73 


kin of the Lodge thought by many degrees too 
familiar. 

“ Well, therms a cove !” said Mr. Levi, laugh- 
ing lazily, and showing his long rows of ivory 
fangs, as he pointed over his shoulder, with the 
point of his thumb, tow'ard the street. 

<‘Kum un!” said Mr. Goldshed, laughing 
likewise, as he held his lighted cigar between 
his fingers. 

And they laughed together tranquilly for a 
little, till, with a sudden access of gravity, Mr. 
Goldshed observed, with a little wag of the 
head — <«> 

“He’s da-a-am clever.” 

“ Yash, da-a-ara clever !” echoed Levi. 

“Not as much green as you’d put your fin- 
ger on, I tell you, no muff — devilish good lay, 
as you shall see,” continued Goldshed. 

“ Devilish good — no, no muff— nothing green,” 
repeated Mr. Levi, lighting his cigar. “ Good 
head for speculation — might be a bit too clever, 
I’m thinking,” and he winked gently at his gov- 
ernor. 

“ Believe you, my boy, if we’d let him ; but 
we won’t, will we ?” drawled Mr. Goldshed, 
jocosely. 

“Not if I know'S it,” said Mr. Levi, sitting 
on the table, with his feet on the stool, and 
smoking toward the wall. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

MR. DING WELL ARRIVES. 

Messrs. Goldshed & Levi owned four 
houses in Rosemary Court, and Miss Sarah 
Rumblo was their tenant. The court is dark, 
ancient, and grimy. Miss Rumble let lodgings, 
worked hard, led an anxious life, and subsisted 
on a remarkably light diet, and at the end of 
the year never had a shilling over. Her Jewish 
landlords used to pay her a visit now and then, 
to receive the rent, and see that every thing 
was right. These visits she dreaded ; they were 
grumbling and minatory, and enlivened by oc- 
casional oaths and curses. But though it was 
part of their system to keep their tenants on the 
alert by perpetual fault-findings and menaces, 
they knew very well that they got every shilling 
the house brought in, that Miss Rumble lived 
on next to nothing, and never saved a shilling, 
and was, in fact, their underfed, overworked, and 
indefatigable slave. 

With the uncomplaining and modest charity 
of the poor, Sarah Rumble maintained her lit- 
tle orphan niece and nephew by extra labor at 
needlework, and wonderful feats of domestic 
economy. 

This waste of resources Mr. Levi grudged. 
He had never done complaining of it, and de- 
monstrating that it could only be accomplished 
by her holding the house at too low a rent ; 
how else could it be? Why was she to keep 
other people’s brats at the expense of Messrs. 
Goldshed & Levi? What was the work-house 


for ? This perpetual pressure was a sore trouble 
to the poor woman, who had come to love the 
children as if they were her own ; and after one 
of Mr. Levi’s minatory visits she often lay awake 
sobbing, in the terror and yearnings of her un- 
speakable affection, while its unconscious objects 
lay fast asleep by her side. 

From Mr. Levi, in his accustomed vein. Miss 
Rumble had received full instruction for the re- 
ception and entertainment of her new lodger, 
Mr. Dingwell. He could not say when he 
would arrive — neither the day nor the hour — 
and several days had already elapsed and no 
arrival had taken place. This evening she had 
gone down to the “ shop,” so designated, as if 
there had been but one in London, to lay out a 
shilling and seven pence very carefully, leaving 
her little niece and nephew in charge of the 
candle and the house, and spelling out their 
Catechism for next day. 

A tapping came to the door, not timid nor yet 
menacing, a sort of double knock, delivered with a 
walking-cane ; on the whole a sharp but gentle- 
manlike summons to which the little company as- 
sembled there were unused. The children lifted 
their eyes from the book before them, and stared 
at the door without answering. It opened with a 
latch, which without more ado was raised, and 
a tall, white-haired gentleman, with a stoop and 
a very brown skin, looked in inquisitively, and 
said with a smile that was not pleasant, and a 
voice not loud but somewhat harsh and cold — 

“Mrs. or Miss Rumble hereabouts, my 
dears?” 

“Miss Rumble; that’s aunt, please, sir 
answered the little girl, slipping down from her 
chair and making a courtesy. 

“ Well, she's the lady I want to speak with, 
my love ; where is she?” said the gentleman, 
glancing round the homely chamber from under 
his white eyebrows with a pair of cold, light, 
restless eyes. 

“ She’s — she’s — ’’hesitated the child. 

“ Not in bed, I see ; nor in the cupboard (the 
cupboard door was open). Is she up the chim- 
ney, my charming child ?” 

“No, sir, please; she’s gone to Mrs. Chalk’s 
for the bacon.” ^ 

“Mrs. Chalk’s for the bacon?” echoed the 
gentleman. “Very good! Excellent woman, 
excellent bacon, I dare say. But how far away 
is it ? — how soon shall we have your aunt back 
again ?” 

“Just round the corner, please, sir ; aunt’s 
never no time,” answered the child. “Would 
you please call in again ?” 

“ Charming young lady ! so accomplished ! 
Who taught you your grammar ? So polite, so 
suspicious. Do you know the meaning of that 
word, my dear?” 

“ No, sir, please.” 

“ And I am vastly obliged for your invitation 
to call again, but I find your company much too 
agreeable to think of going away ; so if you al- 
low me — and do shut that door, my sweet child ; 
many thanks — I’ll do myself the honor to sit 


74 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


down, if I may venture, and continue to enjoy 
your agreeable conversation, till your aunt re- 
turns to favor us with her charming presence 
and — bacon.” 

The old gentleman was glancing from under 
his brows, from corner to corner of this homely 
chamber ; an uneasy habit, not curiosity, and 
during his ceremonious speech he kept bowing 
and smiling, and set down a black leather bag, 
that he had in his hand, on the deal table, to- 
gether with his walking-cane, and pulled off his 
gloves and warmed his hands at the tiny bit of 
fire. When his back was toward them the 
children exchanged a glance, and the little boy 
looked frightened, and on the point of bursting 
into tears. 

whispered the girl, alarmed, for she 
could not tell what effect the demonstration 
might have upon the stranger — “ quiei !"' — and 
she shook her finger in urgent warning at Jem- 
mie. “A very nice gent, as has money for 
auntie — there 

So the tears that stood in Jemmie’s big eyes 
were not followed by an outcry, and the gentle- 
man, with his hat and outside wrapper on, stood 
with his back to the little fire, looking, in his 
restless way, over the children’s heads, with his 
white, cold eyes and the same smile. There 
was a dreamy idea haunting Lucy Maria’s head 
that this gentleman was very like a white ani- 
mal she had seen at the Surrey Zoological Gar- 
dens when her uncle had treated her to that in- 
structive show, the same sort of cruel grin, and 
the same restless oscillation before the bars of 
its cage. 

“Hey! so she’ll be back again?” said he, 
recollecting the presence of the two children ; 
“ the excellent lady, your aunt, I mean. Su- 
perb apartment this is, but it strikes me, hardly 
sufficiently hey ? Owe halfpenny can- 

dle, however brilliant, can hardly do justice to 
such a room ; pretty taper, very pretty, isn’t it ? 
Such nice mutton fat ! my dear young lady, and 
such a fine long snuff — like a chimney with a 
Quaker’s hat on top of it — you don’t see 
such fine things everywhere ! And who’s this 
young gentleman, who enjoys tlie distinction of 
being admitted to your salon — a page or what ?” 

“ It’s Jemmie, sir ; stand up and bow to the 
gentleman, Jemmie.” 

Jemmie slipped down on the floor, and made 
a very alarmed bow, with his great eyes staring 
deprecatingly in the visitor’s face. 

“I’m charmed to make your acquaintance. 
What grace and ease ! It’s perfectly charm- 
ing ! I’m too much honored, Mr. Jemmie. And 
so exquisitely got up, too ! There’s only one 
little toilet refinement I would venture to rec- 
ommend. The worth}^ lady, Mrs. Chalks, who 
contributes bacon to this house, and, I presume, 
candles — could, I dare say, also supply another 
luxury, with which you are not so well acquaint- 
ed, called — one of the few perfectly safe cos- 

metics. Pray try it ; you’ll find it soluble in 
water. And ho ! reading too ? What have you 
been reading out of that exquisite little volume?” 


“ Catechism, please, sir,” answered the little 
girl. 

“Ho, Catechism? Delightful! What a 
wonderful people we English are !” The latter 
reflection was made for his own entertainment, 
and he laughed over it in an under-tone. ‘ ‘ Then 
your aunt teaches you the art of godliness ? 
You’ve read about Babel, didn’t you ? — the ac- 
complishment of getting up to heaven is so 
nice !” 

“ Sunday School, sir, please,” said the girl. 

“ Oh, it’s there you learn it? Well, I shall 
ask you only one question in your Catechism, 
and that’s the first — what's your name?” 

“ Lucy Maria.” 

“Well, Lucy Maria and Mr. Jemmie, I 
trust your theological studies may render you at 
last as pious as I am. You know how death 
and sin came into the world, and you know 
what they are. Sin is doing any thing on earth 
that’s pleasant, and death’s the penalty of it. 
Did you ever see any one dead, my sweet child 
— not able to raise a finger or an eyelid ? rather 
a fix, isn’t it ? — and screwed up in a stenching 
box to be eaten by worms — all alone, under 
ground ? You'll be so, egad, and your friend 
Jemmie there, perhaps before me — though I’m 
an old boy. Younkers go off sometimes by the 
score. I’ve seen ’em trundled out in fever and 
plague, egad, lying in rows, like plucked chick- 
ens in a poulterer’s shop. And they say you 
have scarlatina all about you /^ere, now ; bad 
complaint, you know, that kills the little chil- 
dren. You need not frighten yourselves though, 
because it must happen, sooner or later — die you 
must» It’s the penalty, you know, because Eve 
once eat an apple.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Rather hard lines on us, isn’t it ? She eat 
an apple, and sin and death, and colic — I never 
eat an apple in consequence — colic came into 
the world, and cider, as a consequence — the 
worst drink ever invented by the devil. And 
now go on and learn your Church Catechism 
thoroughly, and you’ll both turn into angels. 
Upon my life, I think I see the feathers be- 
ginning to sprout from your shoulders already. 
You’ll have wings, you know, if all goes right, 
and tails, for any thing I know.” 

The little boy looked into his face perplexed 
and frightened — the little girl, answering his 
haggard grin with an attempted smile, show- 
ed also bewilderment and dismay in her eyes. 
They were both longing for the return of their 
aunt. 

Childish nature, which is only human nature 
without its scarf skin, is always afraid of irony. 
It is not its power, but its treacheiy that is 
dreadful — the guise of friendship hiding a bale- 
ful purpose underneath. One might fancy the 
seasoned denizens of Gehenna welcoming, com- 
plimenting, and instructing new-comers with 
these solemn derisions. How children delight 
in humor ! how they wince and quail under 
irony ! Be it ever so rudely fashioned and 
clumsily handled, still it is to them a terrible 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


75 


weapon. If children are to be either ridiculed 
or rebuked, let it be honestly, in direct terms. 
We should not scare them with this jocularity 
of devils. 

Having thus amused himself with the chil- 
dren for a time, he unlocked his leather bag, 
took out two or three papers, ordered the little 
girl to snuff the candle, and pulled it across the 
table to the corner next himself, and, sitting 
close by, tried to read, holding the letter almost 
in the flame, screwing his white eyebrows to- 
gether, and shifting his position, and that of the 
candle also, with very little regard to the studi- 
ous convenience of the children. 

He gave it up. The red and smoky light 
tried his eyes too severely. So, not w'ell pleased, 
he locked his letters up again. 

“ Cat’s eyes — owls ! How the devil they read 
by it passes' my comprehension. Any more can- 
dles here — hey ?” he demanded with a sudden 
sharpness that made the children start. 

“ Three, please, sir.” 

‘‘ Get ’em.” 

On the nail in the closet, please, sir.” 

‘‘ Get ’em, d — n it !” 

‘ ‘ Closet’s locked, please, sir. Aunt has the 
key.” 

‘‘ Ha !” he snarled, and looked at the children 
as if he would like to pick a quarrel with them. 

“ Does your aunt allow you to let the fire out 
on nights like this — hey ? You’re a charming 
young lady, you — and this young gentleman, in 
manners and appearance, every thing the proud- 
est aunt could desire ; but I’m curious to know 
whether either one or other is of the slightest 
earthly use ; and secondly, whether she keeps a 
birch rod in that closet — hey? — and now and 
then flogs you — ha, ha, ha ! The expense of the 
rod is trifling, the pain not worth mentioning, 
and soon over, but the moral efiects are admira- 
ble, better and more durable — take my word for 
it — than all the catechisms in Paternoster Row.” 

The old gentleman seemed much tickled by 
his own pleasantries, and laughed viciously as he 
eyed the children. 

“ You did not tell me a fib, I hope, my dear, 
about your aunt? She’s, a long time about 
coming ; and, I say, do put a little coal on the 
fire, will you ?” 

“Coal’s locked up, please, sir,” said the child, 
who was growing more afraid of him every min- 
ute. 

“ ’Gad, it seems to me that worthy woman’s 
afraid you’ll carry off the bricks and plaster. 
Where’s the poker ? Chained to the wall, I sup- 
pose ; well, there’s a complaint called kleptoma- 
nia — it comes with a sort of irritation at the tips 
cf the fingers, and I should not be surjjrised if 
you and your friend Jemmie, there, had got it.” 

Jemmie looked at his fingers’ ends, and up in 
the gentleman’s face, in anxious amazement. 

“But there’s a cure for it — essence of cane — 
and if that won’t do, a capital charm — nine tails 
of a gi’ay cat applied under competent direction. 
Your aunt seems to understand that disorder — 
it begins with an itching in the fingers, and 


ends with a pain in the back — ha, ha, ha! 
You’re a pair of theologians, and, if you’ve read 
John Bunyan, no doubt understand and enjoy 
an allegory.” 

“Yes, sir, please, we will,” answered poor 
Lucy Maria, in her perplexity. 

“ And we’ll be very good friends. Miss Marie 
Louise, or whatever your name is, I’ve no doubt, 
provided you play me no tricks and do precise- 
ly whatever I bid you ; and, upon my soul, if you 
don’t. I’ll take the devil out of my pocket and 
frighten you out of your wits, I will — ha, ha, ha I 
— so sure as you live, into flts /” 

And the old gentleman, with an ugly smile 
on his thin lips, and a frown between his white 
eyebrows, fixed his glittering gaze on the child 
and wagged his head. 

You may be sure she was relieved when, at 
that moment, she heard her aunt’s well-known 
step on the lobby, and the latch clicked, the door 
opened, and Miss Rumble entered. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MR. DINGWELL MAKES HIMSELF COMFORTABLE. 

“Ah! — ho! you are Miss Rumble — hey?” 
said the old gentleman, fixing a scrutinizing 
glance from under his white eyebrows upon Sal- 
ly Rumble, who stood in the door-way, in won- 
der, not unmixed with alarm ; for people who 
stand every hour in presence of Giant AYant, 
with his sword at their throats, have lost their 
faith in fortune, and long ceased to expect a be- 
nevolent fairy in any stranger who may present 
himself dubiously, and anticipate rather an ene- 
my. So, looking hard at the gentleman who 
stood before the little fire, with his hat on, and 
the light of the solitary dipped candle shining 
on his by no means pleasant countenance, she 
made him a little frightened courtesy, and ac- 
knowledged that she was Sally Rumble, though 
she could not tell what was to follow. 

“ I’ve been waiting ; I come here to see you 
— pray, shut the door — from two gentlemen, 
Jews, whom you ^no\y~fnends — don’t be unea- 
sy — friends of mine^ friends of yours — Mr. Gold- 
shed and Mr. Levi, the kindest, sweetest, sharp- 
est fellows alive, and here’s a note from them — 
you can readf^ 

“Read ! Law bless you — yes, sir” answered 
Sally. 

“Thanks for the blessing — read the note; 
it’s only to tell you I’m the person they mention- 
ed this morning, Mr. Dingwell. Are the rooms 
ready? You can make me comfortable — eh?” 

“In a humble way, sir,” she answered, with 
a courtesy. 

“Yes, of course; I’m a humble fellow, and 
I hear you’re a sensible young lady. These lit- 
tle pitchers here, of course, have ears — I’ll say 
all that’s necessary as we go up — there’s a fel- 
low with a cab at the door ; isn’t there ? Well, 
there’s some little luggage of mine on it — we 
must get it up stairs ; give him something to 
lend a hand ; but first let me see my rooms.” 


76 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


‘‘Yes, sir,” said Sally, with another courtesy. 
And Mr. Dingwell, taking up his bag and stick, 
followed her in silence, as with the dusky can- 
dle she led the way up the stairs. 

She lighted a pair of candles in tlie drawing- 
room. There was some fire in the grate. The 
rooms looked better than he had expected — 
there were curtains, and an old Turkish carpet, 
and some shabby and some handsome pieces of 
furniture. 

“It will do, it will do — ha, ha, ha! how like 
a pawnbroker’s store it looks — no two things 
match in it; but it is not bad — those Jew fel- 
lows, of couise, did it? All this stuff isn’t 
yours ?” said Mr. Dingwell. 

“Law bless you, no, sir,” answered Sally, 
with a dismal smile and a shake of her head. 

“ Thanks again for your blessing. And the 
bedroom?” inquired he. 

She pushed open the door. 

“ Capital looking-glass,” said he, standing be- 
fore his dressing-table — “cap-i-tal! if it weren’t 
for that great seam across the middle — ha, ha, 
ha! funny effect, by Jove! Is it colder than 
usual, here ?” 

“ No, sir, please ; a nice evening.” 

“Devilish nice, by Allah ! I’m cold through 
and through my great coat. Will you please 
poke up that fire a little ? Iley ! what a grand 
bed we’ve got ! what tassels and ropes ! and, by 
Jove, carved angels or Cujnds — I hope, Cupids 
— on the foot-board !” he said, running the tip 
of his cane along the profile of one of them ; 
“ they must have got this a wonderful bargain. 
Hey ! -I hope no one died in it last week?” 

“Oh, la ! sir ; Mr. Levi is a very pitickler 
gentleman ; he wouldn’t for all he’s worth.” 

“ Oh ! not he, I know ; very particular.” 

Mr. Dingwell was holding the piece of dam- 
ask curtain between his finger and thumb, and 
she fancied was sniffing at it gently. 

“ Very particular, but I’m more so. We 
English are the dirtiest dogs in the world. 
They ought to get the Turks to teach ’em to 
wash and be clean. I traveled in the East 
once, for a commercial house, and know some- 
thing of them. Can you make coffee?” 

“ Yes, sir, please.” 

“ Very strong?” 

“Yes, sir, sure.” 

“Very, mind. As strong as the devil it 
must be, and as clear as — as your conscience'^ 
He was getting out a tin case as he spoke. 

“ Here it is. I got it in — I forget the name — a 
great place, near one of your bridges. I sup- 
pose it’s as good as any to be had in this place. 
Of course it isn’t all coffee. We must go to 
the heathen for that ; but if they haven’t ground 
up toasted skeletons, or any thing dirty in it, 
I’m content. I’m told you can’t eat or drink a 
mouthful here without swallowing something 
you never bargained for. Every thing is drug- 
ged. You d — d Christian cheats, you’re an op- 
probrium to commerce and civilization ; you’re 
the greatest oafs on earth, with all your police 
and spies. Why, it’s only to will it, and you I 


don't; you let it go on. We are assuredly a 
beastly people !” 

“Sugar, please, sir?” 

“ No, thank you.” 

“ Take milk, sir?” 

“Heaven forbid! Milk, indeed! I tell you 
what, Mrs. — what’s your name ? — I tell you if 
the Sultan had some of your great fellows — 
your grocers, and bakers, and dairymen, and 
brewers, egad! — out there, he’d have ’em on 
their ugly faces and bastinado their great feet 
into custard-pudding ! I’ve seen fellows — and 
, d — d glad I was to see it, I can tell you — scream- 
ing like stuck pigs, and their eyes starting out 
of their heads, and their feet like bags of black 
currant-jelly, ha, ha, ha! — for a devilish deal 
less. Now, you see, ma’am, I have high notions 
of honesty ; and this tin case I’m going to give 
you will give me three small cups of coffee, as 
strong as I have described, six times over ; do 
you understand ? — six times three — eighteen ; 
— eighteen small cups of coffee ; and don’t let 
those pretty little foxes’ cubs, down stairs, 
meddle with it. Tell ’em I know what I’m 
about, and they’d better not, ha, ha, ha! — nor 
with any thing that belongs to me.” 

Miss Sarah Rumble was a good deal dismay- 
ed by the jubilant severity of Mr. Dingwell’s 
morals. She would have been glad he had 
been of a less sharp and cruel turn of pleasant- 
ry. Her heart was heavy, and she wished her- 
self a happy deliverance, and had a vague alarm 
about the poor little children’s falling under 
suspicion, and of all that might follow. But 
what could she do ? Poverty is so powerless, 
and has so little time to weigh matters mature- 
ly, or to .prepare for any change; its hands are 
always so full, and its stomach so empty, and its 
spirits so dull. 

“I wish those d — d curtains were off the bed,” 
and again they underwent the same disgusting 
process; “and the bed-clothes, egad! They 
purify nothing here. You know nothing about 
them either, of course ? No ; — but they would 
not like to kill me. No — that would not do. 
Knock their little game on the head, eh? I 
suppose it is all right. What’s prevalent here 
now ? What sort of — I mean what sort of death 
— fever or small-pox, or scarlatina — eh ? Much 
sickness going?” 

“Nothink a’most, sir ; a little measles among 
the children.” 

“No objection to that; it heads them down 
a bit, and does not trouble us. But what among 
the grown people ?” 

“Nothink to signify in the court here, for 
three months a’most.” 

“And then^ ma’am, what was it, pray ? Give 
those to your boy (they were his boots) ; let him 
rub ’em up, ma’am, he’s not a bit too young 
to begin ; and egad ! he had better do ’em well^ 
too;” and thrusting his feet into a great pair of 
slippers, he reverted to his question — “What 
sickness was then^ ma’am, three months ago, here 
in this pleasant little prison-yard of a place — 
hey?’ 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


77 


“Fever, please, sir, at No. 4. Three took it, 
please — two of them went to hospital.” 

“And never walked out?” 

“Don’t know, indeed, sir — and one died, 
please, sir, in the court here, and he left three 
little children.” 

“ I hope they’re gone away ?” 

“Yes, sir, please,” 

“Well, that’s a release. Best his soul, he’s 
dead ! as our immortal bard, that says every 
thing so much better than any one else ever did, 
says ; and rest our souls, they're gone, with their 
vile noise. So your bill of mortality is not 
much to signify; and make that coffee — d’ye 
see ? — this moment, and let me have it as hot as 
— as the final abode of Dissenters and Catho- 
lics — I see you believe in the Church Catechism 
— immediately, if you please, to the next 
room.” 

So, with a courtesy, Sally Bumble tripped 
from the room, with the coffee-case in her 
hand. 


CHAPTEB XXXIII. 

THE LODGER AND HIS LANDLADY. 

Sally was beginning to conceive a great 
fear of her guest, and terror being the chief 
spring of activity, in a marvelously short time 
the coffee was made, and she, with Lucy Maria 
holding the candle behind her, knocking at what 
they called the drawing-room door. When, in 
obedience to his command, she entered, he was 
standing by the chimney-piece, gazing at her 
through an atmosphere almost hazy with tobacco 
smoke. He had got on his dressing-gown, 
which w’as pea-green, and a scarlet fez, and 
stood with his inquisitive smile and frown, and 
his long pipe a little removed from his lips. 

“Oh, h'^you? yes; no one — do you mind — 
except Mr. Larkin, or Mr. Levi, or Mr. Gold- 
shed, ever comes in to me — always charmed to 
see you, and them — but there ends my public ; 
so, my dear lady, if any person should ask to 
see Mr. Dingwell, from New York in America, 
you’ll simply say there’s no such person here — 
yes— there’s — no — such — person—here — upon my 
honor. And you’re no true woman if you don’t 
say so with pleasure — because it’s a fib.” 

Sarah Bumble courtesied affirmatively. 

“I forgot to give you this note, my letter of 
introduction. Here, ma’am, take it, and read 
it, if you can. . It comes from those eminent 
hai-pies, ithe Messrs. Goldshed & Levi — your 
landlords, aren’t they?” 

Another courtesy from grave, dark-browed 
Miss Bumble acknowledged the fact. 

“It is pleasant to be accredited by such gen- 
tlemen — good landlords, I dare say ?” 

“I’ve nothing to say against Mr. Levi ; and 
I’m ’appy to say, sir, my rent’s bin always paid 
up punctual,” she said. 

“ Yes, just so — capital landlord ! charming 
tenant ! and I suspect if you didn’t, they’d find 
a way to make you — eh ? Your coffee’s not so 
bad — you may make it next time just a degree 


stronger, bitter as wormwood and verjuice, please 
— ^black and bitter, ma’am, as English prejudice. 
It isn’t badly made, however — no, it is really 
good. It isn’t a common Christian virtue, mak- 
ing good coffee — the Mahometans have a knack 
of it, and you must be a bit of a genius, ma’am, 
for I think you’ll make it very respectably by 
to-morrow evening, or at latest, by next year. 
You shall do every thing well for me, madam. 
The Dingwells were always d — d flighty, wick- 
ed, unreasonable people, ma’am, and you’ll find 
me a regular Dingwell, and worse, madam. 
Look at me — don’t I look like a vampire? I 
tell you, ma’am, I’ve been buried, and they 
would not let me rest in my grave, and they’ve 
called me up by their d — d incantations, and 
here I am, ma’am — an evoked spirit. I have 
not read that bit of paper. How do they intro- 
duce me — as Mr. Dingwell, or Mr. Dingwell’s 
ghost ? I’m wound up in a sort of way ; but 
I’m deficient in blood, ma’am, and in heat. 
You’ll have to keep the fire up always like this, 
Mrs. Bumble. You better mind, or you’ll have 
me a bit too like a corpse to be pleasant. Egad ! 
I frighten myself in the glass, ma’am. There 
is what they call transfusion of blood now, 
ma’am, and a very sensible thing it is. Pray, 
don’t you think so ?” 

“I do suppose what you say’s correct, sir.” 

“ When a fellow comes out of the grave, 
ma’am — that’s sherry in that bottle; be kind 
enough to fill this glass — he’s chilly, and he 
wants blood, Mrs. Bumble. A gallon, or so, 
transfused into my veins wouldn’t hurt me. You 
can’t make blood fast enough for the wear and 
tear of life, especially in a place like merry 
England, as the poets call it — and merry En- 
gland is as damp all over as one of your charnel 
vaults under your dirty churches. Egad ! it’s 
enough to make a poor ghost like me turn vam- 
pire, and drain those rosy little brats of yours — 
ha, ha, ha ! — children, are they, Mrs. Bum- 
ble— eh ?” 

“ No, sir, please — my brother’s children.” 

“ Your brothel's — ho ! He doesn’t live here, 
I hope ?” 

“He’s dead sir.” 

“Dead — is he?” 

‘ ‘ Five years last May, sir.” 

“Oh! that’s good. And their mother? — 
some more sherry, please.” 

“ Dead about four years, poor thing ! They’re 
orphans, sir, please.” 

“’Gad! I do please; it’s a capital arrange- 
ment, ma’am, as they are here, and you mustn’t 
let ’em among the children that swarm about 
places like this. Egad ! ma’am, I’ve no fancy 
for scarlatina or small-pox, or any sort or de- 
scription of your nursery maladies.” 

“ They’re very ’ealthy, sir, I thank you,” said 
grave Sarah Bumble, a little mistaking Mr. 
Dingwell’s drift. 

“ Very glad to hear it, ma’am.” 

“Very kind o’ you, sir,” said she with a 
courtesy. 

“ Kind, of course, yes, very kind,” he echoed. 


78 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


“ Very ’ealthy, indeed, sir, I’m thankful to 
say.” 

“Well, yes, they do look well — for town 
brats, you know — plump and rosy — d — n ’em, 
little skins of red wine ; egad ! enough to make 
a fellow turn vampire ; as I said. Give me a 
little more sherry — thank you, ma’am. Any 
place near here where they sell ice ?” 

“Yes, sir, there’s Mr. Candy’s hice-store, in 
Love Lane, sir.” 

“You must arrange to get me a pound, or 
so, every day at twelve o’clock, broken up in 
lumps, like sugar, and keep it in a cold cellar ; 
do you mind, ma’am ?” 

“ Yes sir, please.” 

“ How old are yow, ma’am ? Well, wo, you 
need not mind — hardly a fair question ; a steady 
woman — a lady who has seen the world — some- 
thing of it, hey ?” said he ; “ so have I — I’m a 
steady old fellow, egad ! — you must give me a 
latch-key, ma’am.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Some ten or twelve years will see us out ; 
curious thing life, ma’am, eh ? ha, ha, ha ! — 
Sparkling cup, ma’am, while it lasts — sometimes; 
pity the flask has so few glasses, and is flat so 
soon; isn’t it so, ma’am?” 

“I never drank wine, sir, but once.” 

“ No ! where was that ?” 

“At Mr. Snelly’s wedding, twenty years 
since.” 

“’Gad, you’d make a good Turk, ma’am — 
don’t mistake me — it’s only they drink no wine. 
You’ve foundlife an up-hill business, then, hey?” 

Mrs. Rumble sighed profoundly, shook her 
head, and said — 

“I’ve ’ad my trials, sir.” 

“Ha, ha, ha! to be sure, why not; then 
you’re a bit tired, I dare say ; what do you think 
of death ?” 

“ I wish I was ready, sir.” 

‘ ‘ An ugly fellow, hey ? I don’t like the 
smell of him, ma’am.” 

“We has our hopes, sir.” 

“Oh! sure and certain hope — yes, the resur- 
rection, hey?” 

“Yes, sir, there’s only one thing troubles me — 
them poor little children ; I wouldn’t care how 
soon I went if they was able to do for them- 
selves.” 

“ They do that very early in London — girls 
especially ; and you’re giving them such an ex- 
cellent training — Sunday school — eh — and 
Church C<atcchism, I see. The righteous are 
never forsaken, my excellent mother used to 
tell me; and if the Catechism does not make 
little Miss what’s-her-name righteous. I’m afraid 
the rosy little rogue has a spice of the devil in 
her.” 

“ God forbid, sir.” 

“ Amen, of course, I’m sure they’re all right 
— I hope they are — for I’ll whip ’em both ; I 
give you fair w^arning, on my honor I will, if 
they give me the least trouble.” 

“ I’ll be very careful, sir, and keep them out 
of the W'ay,” said the alarmed Sarah Rumble. 


“ Oh ! I don’t care about that ; let ’em run 
about, as long as they’re good ; I’ve no objection 
in life to children — quite the contrary — plump 
little rogues — I like ’em — only, egad ! if they’re 
naughty. I’ll turn ’em up, mind.” 

Miss Rumble looked at him with as much 
alarm as if the threat had been to herself. 

He was grinning at her in return, and nodded 
once or twice sharply. 

“Yes, ma’am, lollypops and sugar-cundy when 
they’re good ; but egad ! when they’re naughty, 
ma’am, you’ll hear ’em squalling.” 

Miss Rumble made an alarmed courtesy. 

“ ’Gad, I forgot how cold this d— d town 
is. I say, you’ll keep a fire in my bedroom, 
please ; lay on enough to carry me through the 
night, do you mind?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And poke this fire up, and put. some more 
wood, or coal, on it; I don’t expect to be ever 
warm again — in this world, eh ? — ha, ha, ha! I 
remember our gardener, when we were boys, 
telling me a story of a preacher in a hard frost, 
telling his congregation that hell was a terribly 
cold place, lest if he described wLat good fires 
they kept there they’d all have been wishing to 
get into it. Did you ever know any one, 
ma’am, of my name, Dingwell, before, eh? 
Where were you born ?” 

“London, sir, please.” 

“Ho! Canterbury was our place; we were 
great people, the Dingwells, there once. My 
father failed, though — fortune of war — and I’ve 
seen all the world since ; ’gad, I’ve met with 
queer j^eople, ma’am, and one of those chances 
brings me here now. If I had not met the 
oddest fish I ever set my eyes on, in the most 
out-o’-the-way place on earth, I should not have 
had the happiness of occupying this charming 
apartment at this moment, or of making your 
acquaintance, or that of your plump little Cupid 
and Psyche, down stairs. London, I suppose, 
is pretty much what it always W'as, where any 
fellow with plenty of money may have plenty ^ of 
fun. Lots of sin in London, ma’am, eh ? N6t 
quite so good as Vienna. But the needs and^ 
pleasures of all men, according to their degree, 
are wonderfully provided for ; wherever money 
is there is a market — for the cabman’s copper 
and the guineas of the gentlemen he drives — 
every thing for money, ma’am — bouquets, and 
smiles, and coffins, wooden or leaden, according 
to your relative fastidiousness. But things 
change very fast, ma’am. Look at this map ; 

I should not know the town — a wilderness, 
egad ! and no one to tell you where fun is to be 
found.” 

She gazed, rather frightened, at this leering, 
giggling old man, who stood with his shoulders 
against the chimney-piece, and his hands tum- 
bling over his shillings in his pockets, and his 
sinister and weary face ever so little flushed 
with his sherry and his talk. 

“ Well, if you can give a poor devil a wrinkle of 
any sort — hey ? — it will be a charity ; but, egad ! 
I’m as sleepy as the homilies ;” and he yawned 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


79 


direfully. “Do, like an angel, go and see to 
my room. I can scarcely keep my eyes open.” 

From the next room she heard him hi-yeawing 
in long-drawn yawns, and talking in snatches to 
himself over the fire, and when she came back 
he took the candle and said— 

“ Beaten, ma’am, fairly beaten to-night. Not 
quite what I was, though I’m good for some- 
thing still ; but an old fellow can’t do without 
his sleep.” 

Mr. Dingwell’s extraordinary communica- 
tiveness would have quite charmed her, had it 
not been in a faint way racy of corruption, and 
followed with a mocking echo of insult, which 
she caught, but could not accurately interpret. 
The old rascal was irrepressibly garrulous ; but 
he was too sleepy to talk much more, and looked 
ruefully worn out. 

He took the bedroom candle with a great 
yawn, and staggering, I am bound to say, only 
with sleep, he leaned for a moment against the 
door- way of his room, and said, in his grimmer 
vein — 

“ You’ll bring me a cup of coffee, mind, at 
eight o’clock — black, no milk, no sugar — and a 
bit of dry toast, as thin as a knife and as hard 
as a tile ; do you understand ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ And why the devil don’t you say so ? And, 
lest I should forget, Mr. Levi will be here to- 
morrow, at eleven, with another gentleman. 
Show them both up ; and, I say, there are sev- 
eral things I’m particular about, and I’ll put 
them on paper — egad ! that’s the best way — to- 
morrow, and I’ll post it up in my room, like a 
firmaun, and you had better attend to them, 
that’s all and holding up his candle, as he 
stood in the door- way, he gazed round the bed- 
room, and seemed satisfied, and shut the door 
sharply in her face, without turning about, or 
perhaps intending that rudeness, as she was ex- 
ecuting her valedictory courtesy. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

IX WUICII MR. DIXGWELL PUTS HIS HAND TO 
THE POKER. 

At eleven o’clock next morning Mr. Ding- 
well w'as refreshed, and ready to receive his ex- 
pected visitors. He had just finished a pipe as 
he heard their approaching steps upon the stairs, 
and Miss Sarah Rumble pushed open the door 
and permitted Mr. Levi and his friend to enter 
and announce themselves. Mr. Dingwell re- 
ceived them with a slight bow and a rather sar- 
castic smile. 

Mr. Levi entered first, with his lazy smile 
showing his glittering fangs, and his fierce, 
cunning, prominent eyes swept the room, and 
rested on Mr. Dingwell. Putting down his hat 
on the middle of the narrow table, he stooped 
across, extending his lank arm and long hand 
toward the white-headed old man with the broad 
forehead and lean brown face, who happened 


to turn to the chimney-piece just then, to look 
for a paper, and so did not shake hands. 

“ And Mr. Larkin ?” said Mr. Dingwell, with 
the same smile, as he turned about and saw 
that slim, bald, pink-eyed impersonation of 
Christianity overtopping the dark and glossy 
representative of the Mosaic dispensation. 

“Sit down, pray — though — eh? — has my 
friend. Miss Rumble, left us chairs enough?” 
said Mr. Dingwell, looking from corner to cor- 
ner. 

“Quite ample; thanks, many thanks,” an- 
swered Mr. Larkin, who chose, benignantly, to 
take this attention to himself. “ Three chairs, 
yes, and three of us ; pray, Mr. Dingwell, don’t 
take any trouble.” 

“ Oh ! thank you ; but I was not thinking of 
taking any trouble, only I should not like to be 
left without a chair. Miss Sarah Rumble, I 
dare say she’s very virtuous, but she’s not bril- 
liant,” he continued, as he approached. “ There, 
for instance, her pot-house habits I She leaves 
my old hat on the centre of the table !” and with 
a sudden sweep of the ebony stem of his long 
pipe, he knocked Mr. Levi’s hat upon the floor, 
and kicked it into the far corner of the room. 

“ Da-a-am it ; that’sh my hat !” said Mr. Levi, 
looking after it. 

“ So much the better for me," said Mr. Ding- 
well, with an agreeable smile and a nod. 

“ An error — quite a mistake,” interposed Mr. 
Larkin, with officious politeness. “ Shall L 
pick it up, Mr. Levi?” 

“Leave it lay,” said Mr. Levi, sulkily; “no 
use now. It’s got its allowance, L expect.” 

“ Gentlemen, you’ll not detain me longer 
than is necessary, if you please, because I hate 
business on principle, as a Jew does ham — I beg 
pardon, Mr. Levi, I forgot for a moment — the 
greatest respect for your religion, but I do hate 
business as I hate an attorney, or the devil him- 
self — ’Gad ! there is my foot in it again : Mr. 
Larkin, no reflection, I assure you, on your ex- 
cellent profession, which every one respects. But 
life’s made up of hours : they’re precious, and I 
don’t want to spoil ’em.” 

“ A great trust, sir, a great trust, Mr. Ding- 
well, is time. Ah, sir, how little we make of 
it, with eternity yawning at our feet, and retri- 
bution before us !” 

“ Our and us ; you don’t narrow it to your 
own profession, Mr. Larkin ?” 

“I speak of time generally, Mr. Dingwell, 
and of eternity, and retribution, as applicable 
to all professions,” said Mr. Larkin, sadly. 

“I don’t follow you, sir. Here’s a paper, 
gentlemen, on which I have noted exactly what 
I can prove.” 

“ Can I have it, Mr. Dingwell ?” said the at- 
torney, whose dove-like eyes for a moment con- 
tracted with a hungry, rat-like look. 

“No, I think, no," said Mr. Dingwell, -with- 
drawing it from the long, red fingers extended 
to catch the paper ; Mr. Levi’s fingers, at a 
more modest distance, were also extended, and 
also disappointed ; “ any thing I write myself I 


80 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


have a kind of feeling about it ; I’d rather keep ! 
it to myself, or put it in the fire, than trouble j 
the most artless Jew or religious attorney I know 
with the custody of it : so, if you just allow me, j 
I’ll read it ; it’s only half a dozen lines, and I 
don’t care if y&u make a note of it, Mr. Larkin.” 

“Well,” he resumed, after he had glanced 
through the paper, Mr. Larkin sitting expectant 
arrectis auribus^ and with a pen in his fingers, 

“ you may say that I, Mr. Dingwell, knew the 
late Honorable Arthur Verney, otherwise Hakim 
Frank, otherwise Hakim Giaour, otherwise Mam- 
houd Ali Ben-Nezir, for five years and two 
months, and upward — three days, I think, im- 
mediately preceding his death ; for the latter 
four years very intimately. That I frequently 
procured him small loans of money, and saw 
him, one way or another, nearly every day of 
my life : that I was with him nearly twice a 
day during his last illness : that I was present 
when he expired, and was one of three persons 
who saw him buried : and that I could point 
out his grave, if it were thought desirable to 
send out persons acquainted with his appear- 
ance, to disinter and identify the body.” 

“No need of that, I think,” said Mr. Lar- 
kin, looking up and twiddling his eye-glass on 
his finger. 

He glanced at Levi, who was listening in- 
tensely, and almost awfully, and, reading no 
sign in his face, he added — 

“ However^ I see no harm in making the 
note.” 

So on went Mr. Dingwell, holding a pair of 
gold glasses over his nose. 

“ I can perfectly identify him as the Hon. 
Arthur Verney, having transacted business for 
him respecting an annuity which was paid him 
by his family ; written letters for him when his 
hand was affected; and read his letters for him 
when he was ill, which latter letters, together 
with a voluminous correspondence found in his 
box, and now in my possession, I can identify 
also as having been in /as.” 

“I don’t see any need, my dear Mr. Ding- 
well, of your mentioning your having written 
any letters for him ; it has, in fact, no bearing 
that I can recognize upon the case. I should, 
in fact, apprehend complicating the case. You 
might find it difficult to specify, and we to pro- 
duce, the particular letters referred to; so I 
should simply say you read them to him, at his 
desire, before he dispatched them for England, 
that is, of course, assuming that you did so.” 

“Very good, sir ; knock it out, and put that 
in; and I can prove that these letters, which 
can easily, I suppose, be identified by the 
writers of them in England, were in his posses- 
sion, and that several of them I can recollect his 
having read to me on the day he received them. 
That’s pretty nearly -what strikes me — eh ?” 

“Yes, sir — certainly, Mr. Dingwell — most 
important ; but surely he had a servant ; had he 
not, my d(7ar sir ? — an attendant of some sort ? 
they’re to be had there for next to nothing, I 
think,” hesitated Mr. Larkin. 


! “ Certainly — so there was — yes ; but he start- 
j ed for Egypt in a boat full of tiles, or onions, or 
something, a day or two after the Hakim was 
j buried, and I’m afraid they’ll find it rather hard 
to find him. I think he said Egypt, but I won’t 
swear.” 

And Mr. Dingwell laughed, very much tickled, 
with intense sarcastic enjoyment ; so much so 
that Mr. Larkin, though I have seldom before or 
since heard of his laughing, did suddenly laugh 
a short, explosive laugh, as he looked down on 
the table, and immediately looked very grave 
and sad, and pinked up to the very summit of 
his narrow bald head ; and coughing a little, he 
said — 

“ Thank you, Mr. Dingv^ell ; this will suffice 
very nicely for an outline, and I can consult 
with our adviser as to its particular sufficiency 
— is not that your impression, Mr. Levi ?” 

“You lawyer chaps undusta-ans that line of 
business best; I know no more about it than 
watch-making — only don’t shleep over it, for it’s 
costing us a da-a-am lot of money,” said Mr. 
Levi, rising with a long yawn and a stretch, and 
emphasizing it with a dismal oath ; and shutting 
his great glaring eyes and shaking his head, as 
if he were being victimized at a pace which no 
capital could long stand. 

“Certainly, Mr. Levi,” said the attorney, 
“you quite take me with you there. We are 
all contributing, except, perhaps, our valued 
friend, Mr. Dingwell, our quota toward a very 
exhausting expense.” 

“Da-a-md exhausting,” interposed Mr. Levi. 

“ Well, pray allow me my own supqi lative,” 
said the attorney, with religious grandeur. “I 
do say it is very exhausting ; though we are all, 
I hope, cheerfully contributing — ” 

“D — n you; to be sure you are,” said Mr. 
Dingwell, with an abrupt profanity that startled 
Mr. Larkin. “ Because you all expect to make 
money by it ; and I’m contributing my time, 
and trouble, and danger, egad ! for precisely the 
same reason. And now, before you go — ^just a 
moment, if you please, as we are on the subject 
— who’s Chancellor of the Exchequer here?” 

“Who advances the necessary funds?” in- 
terpreted Mr. Larkin, with his politest smile. 

“ Yes,” said the old man, with a sharp men- 
acing nod. “Which of you two comes down, 
as you say, with the dust? Who pays the piper 
for this dance of yours, gentlemen ? — the Chris- 
tian or the Jew? I’ve a word for the gentle- 
man who holds the purse — or, as we Christians 
would say, who carries the bag ;” and he glanced 
from one to the other with a sniff, and another 
rather vicious wag of his head. 

“I believe, sir, you may address us both as 
voluntary contributors toward a fund for carry- 
ing on, for the. present^ this business of the Hon- 
orable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, who will, of course, 
recoup us,” said Mr. Larkin, cautiously. 

He used to say sometimes to his conducting 
man, with a smile, sly and holy, up at the yellow 
letters of one of the tin deed-boxes on his shelves 
at the Lodge, after an adroit conversation, “ I 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


81 


think it will puzzle him, rather, to make an as- 
sumpsit out of that.” 

“ Well, you talk of allowing me — as you term 
it — four pounds a week. I’ll not take it,” said 
Mr. Dingwell, viciously. 

“My hye! That’sh liberal, shir, da-a~am 
’anshome, be-Ga-a-ad!” exclaimed Mr. Levi, in 
a blessed mistake as to the nature of Mr. Ding- 
■Nvell’s objection. 

“I know, gentlemen, this business can’t ad- 
vance without me — to me it may be worth some- 
thing ; but you’ll make it worth a great deal 
more to yourselves, and whatever you may find 
me, you’ll find me no fool ; and I’ll not take 
one penny less than five-and-twenty pounds a 
week. 

“ Five - and - twenty pounsh !” howled Mr. 
Levi ; and Mr. Larkin’s small pink eyes opened 
wide at the prodigious idea. 

“You gentlemen fancy you’re to keep me 
here in this black hole making your fortunes, 
and living on the wages of a clerk, egad ! You 
shall do no such thing, I promise you ; you shall 
pay me what I say. I’ll see the town, sir, and 
I’ll have a few guineas in my pocket, or I’ll 
know the reason why. I didn’t come all the 
way here for nothing — d — n you both !” 

“ Pray, sir, a moment,” pleaded Mr. Larkin. 

“Pray, sir, as much as you like; but j»ay, 
also, if you please. Egad ! you shall. Fortune 
owes me something, and egad ! I’ll enjoy while 
I can.” 

“Of course, sir; quite reasonable — so you 
should ; but, my dear Mr. Dingwell, five-and- 
twenty pounds ! — we can hardly be expected, 
my dear sir, to. see our way.” 

“’Gad, sir, I see mine., and I’ll go it,” laugh- 
ed Mr. Dingwell, with a most unpleasant glare 
in his eyes. 

“On reflection, you will see, my dear Mr. 
Dingwell, the extreme inexpediency of any 
thing in the least resembling a fracays (Mr. 
Larkin so pronounced his French) in your par- 
ticular case. I should certainly, my dear sir, 
recommend a most cautious line.” 

“Cauteous as the devil,” seconded Mr. Levi. 

“You think I’m afraid of my liabilities,” 
croaked Mr. Dingwell, with a sudden flush 
across his forehead, and a spasm of his brows 
over his wild eyes, and then he laughed, and 
wagged his head. 

“That’s right — quite right,” almost sighed 
Mr. Larkin — “ do — do — pray do — just reflect for 
only a moment — and you’ll see it.” 

“ To be sure, I see it, and you shall see it, too. 
Egad, I know something, sir, at my years. I 
know how to deal with screw'S, and bullies, and 
schemers, sir — and that is by going straight at 
them — and I’ll tell you what, sir, if you don’t 
pay me the money I name. I’ll make you regret 
it.” 

For a moment Mr. Larkin, for one, did al- 
most regret his share in this uncomfortable and 
highly “speculative” business. If this Mr. 
Dingwell chose to turn restive and extortionate, 
it would have been better it had never entered 
F 


into his ingenious head, and he could already 
see in the Jew’s eyes the sulky and ferocious ex- 
pression that seemed to forebode defeat. 

“If you don’t treat me, as I say, with com- 
mon fairness. I’ll go straight to young Mr. Ver- 
ney myself, and put you out of the baby-house 
altogether.” 

“ What babby-houshe ?” demanded Mr, Levi, 
glowering, and hanging- the corners of his great 
half-open mouth with a sullen ferocity. 

“ Your castle — in the air — ^}"Our d — d plot, 
sir.” 

“If you mean you’re going to turn stag,” be- 
gan the Jew. 

“ There — do — pray, Mr. Levi — you — you mis-^ 
takefl interposed Mr. Larkin imploringly, who 
had heard tales of this Mr. Dingwell’ s mad 
temper. 

“I say,” continued Levi, “ if you’re going to 
split — ” 

“ Split, sir?” cried Mr. Dingwell, with a ma- 
lignant frown, and drawing his mouth together 
into a puckered ring, as he looked askance at 
the Jew. “What the devil do you mean by 
split, sir ? ’Gad ! sir, I’d split your d — d black 
head for you, you little Jew miscreant!” 

Mr. Larkin saw with a qualm that the sinews 
of that evil face were quivering wdth an insane 
fury, and that even under its sun-darkened skin 
it had turned pale, while the old man’s hand 
was instinctively extended toward the poker, of 
which he was thinking, and which was uncom- 
fortably near. 

“No, no, no — pray, gentlemen — I entreat — 
only think fl urged Mr. Larkin, seriously alarmed 
for the Queen’s peace and his own precious 
character. 

Mr. Larkin confronted the Jew, with his great 
hands upon Mr. Levi’s shoulders, so as to pre- 
vent his advance ; but that slender Hebrew, 
who was an accomplished sparrer, gave the god- 
ly attorney a jerk by the elbows which quite 
twirled him about, to his amazement and cha- 
grin. 

“’Andsh off, old chap,” said the Jew, grim- 
ly, to Mr. Larkin, who had not endured such a 
liberty since he was at his cheap day-school, 
nearly forty years ago. 

But Mr. Larkin interposed again, much 
alarmed, for behind him he thought he heard 
the clink of the fire-irons. 

“ He thinks he may say what he pleases,” 
cried the old man’s voice furiously, with a kind 
of choking laugh. 

“No, sir — no, Mr. Dingwell — I assure you — 
do, Mr. Levi — how can you mind him?” he add* 
ed in an undertone, as he stood between. 

“ I don't mind him, Mr. Larkin ; only I won’t 
let no one draw it that sort. I won’t stand a 
lick of a poker for no one ; he shan’t come that 
over me” — and concurrently with this the shrill 
voice of Mr. Dingwell was yelling — 

“ Beeause I’m — because I’m — I’m — every 
d — d little whipper-snapper — because they think 
I’m down, the wretches, I’m to submit to their 
insults.” 


82 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


I don't want to hurt him, Mr. Larkin ; if I 
did, I’d give’m his tea in a mug this minute ; but 
I don’t, I say — only he shan’t lift a poker to 
me." 

‘‘No one, my dear sir, has touched a poker ; 
no one, Mr. Levi, ever dreamed of such a thing. 
Pray, my dear sir, my dear Mr. Dingwell, don’t 
misconceive ; we use slang phrases, now and 
then, without the least meaning or disrespect : 
it has become quite the ton^. I assure you — 
it was only last week, at Nyworth Castle, where 
I had the honor to be received. Lady Mary 
Wrangham used the phrase yanz, for a long sto- 
r>^” 

“D — nyou, can’t you answer my question?” 
said Mr. Dingwell, more in his accustomed vein. 

“ Certainly, sir, we’ll apply to it. Do, Mr. 
Levi, do leave the room ; your presence at this 
moment only leads to excitement.” 

Levi, for a moment, pondered fiercely, and 
then nodded a sulky acquiescence. 

“ I shall overtake you in the court, Mr. Levi, 
if you can wait two or three minutes there.” 

The Jew nodded over his shoulder, and was 
gone. 

“ Mr. Dingwell, sir, I can’t, I assure you. It’s 
not in my power ; it is in the hands of quite 
other people, on whom, ultimately, of course, 
these expenses will fall, to sanction the outlay 
by way of weekly allowance, which you suggest. 
But I will apply in the proper quarter, without 
delay. I wish, Mr. Dingwell, I were the party ; 
you and I would not, I venture to think, be long 
in settling it between us.” 

“No, to be sure, you’re all such liberal fel- 
lows — it’s always some one else that puts us 
under the screw,” laughed Mr. Dingwell, dis- 
cordantly, with his face still flushed, and his 
hand trembling visibly; “you never have the 
stock yourselves — not you, there’s always, Mr. 
Sheridan tells us, you know, in that capital play 
of his, a d — d unconscionable fellow in the back- 
ground, and in Shakspeare’s play, Shylock, you 
know, he hasn’t the money himself, but Tubal, 
a wealthy Hebrew of his tribe, will furnish him. 
Hey ! I suppose they gave the immortal Shaks- 
peare a squeeze in his day ; he understood ’em. 
But Shylock and Tubal are both dead and rot- 
ten long ago. It’s a comfort you can’t escape 
death, with all your cunning, d — n you.” 

But Mr. Larkin spoke peaceably to Mr. Ding- 
well. The expense, up to a certain time, 
would, of course, fall upon Mr. Kiffyn Verney ; 
after that, however, Mr. Larkin and the Jew 
firm would feel it. But be it as it might, they 
could not afibrd to quarrel with Mr. Dingwell ; 
and Mr. Dingwell was a man of a flighty and 
furious temper. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

CLEVE VERNEY SEES THE CHATEAU DE CRES- 
SERON. 

I FANCY that these estimates, on a rather 
large scale, moved by Mr. Dingwell, were agreed 


to, for sufficient reasons, by the parties interest- 
ed in disputing them. 

Mr. Dingwell kept very close during the day- 
time. He used to wander listlessly to and fro, 
between his bedroom and his drawing-room, 
with his hands in the pockets of his dressing- 
gown, and his feet in a pair of hard leather slip- 
pers, with curled-up toes and no heels, that clat- 
tered on the boards like sabots. 

Miss Sarah Rumble fancied that her lodger 
was a little shy of the windows ; when he look- 
ed out into the court, he stood back a yard or 
more from the window-sill. 

Mr. Larkin, indeed, made no secret of Mr. 
Dingwell’s uncomfortable position, in his confer- 
ences with the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney. Mr. 
Dingwell had been a bankrupt, against whom 
many transactions, to which the court had ap- 
plied forcible epithets, had been proved ; to 
whom, in fact, that tribunal had refused quar- 
ter ; and who had escaped from its fangs by a 
miracle. There were judgments, however, in 
force against him ; there was a warrant procur- 
able any day for his arrest; he was still “in 
contempt;” I believe he was an “outlaw;” 
and, in fact, there was all but a price set on his 
head. Thus, between him and his outcast ac- 
quaintance, the late Hon. Arthur Verney, had 
subsisted some strong points of sympathy, which 
had no doubt helped to draw them into that near 
intimacy which stood the Hon. Kiffyn, no less 
than Mr. Dingwell (to whose mill it was bring- 
ing very comfortable grist), so well in stead at 
this moment. 

It behooved Mr. Dingwell, therefore, to exer- 
cise caution. Many years had passed since he 
figured as a London trader. But time, the ob- 
literator, in some cases works slowly ; or rather, 
while the pleasant things of memory are sketch- 
ed in with a pencil, the others are written in a 
bold, legible, round hand, as it were, with a 
broad-nibbed steel pen, and the best durable 
japanned ink ; on which Father Time works his 
india rubber in vain, till his gouty old fingers 
ache, and you can fancy him whistling curses 
through his gums, and knocking his bald pate 
with his knuckles. Mr. Dingwell, on the way 
home, was, to his horror, half recognized by an 
ancient cockney at Malta. Time, therefore, was 
not to be relied upon, though thirty years had 
passed ; and Mr. Dingwell began to fear that a 
debtor is never forgotten, and that the man who 
is thoroughly dipped, like the lovely woman who 
stoops to folly, has but one way to escape conse- 
quences, and that is to die — a step which Mr. 
Dingwell did not care to take. 

The meeting on the 15th, at the Hon. Kif- 
fyn Fulke Verney’s house, Mr. Dingwell was 
prevented by a cold from attending. But the 
note of his evidence sufficed, and the consulta- 
tion, at which Mr. Larkin assisted, was quite 
satisfactory. The eminent Parliamentary coun- 
sel, who attended, and who made, that session, 
nearly fifty thousand pounds, went to the heart 
of the matter direct ; was reverentially listened 
to by his junior, by the Parliamentary agent, by 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


83 


the serious Mr. Larkin, at whom he thrust sharp 
questions, in a peremptory and even fierce way, 
like a general in action, to whom minutes are 
every thing ; treated them once or twice to a 
recollection or short anecdote, which tended to 
show what a clever, sharp fellow the great Par- 
liamentary counsel was, which, indeed, was true ; 
and talked to no one quite from a level, except 
to the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney, to whom he 
spoke confidentially in his ear, and who^ himself 
quickly grew into the same confidential rela- 
tions. 

“I’m glad you take my view — Mr. — Mr. For- 
sythe — very happy, about it, that we should be 
in accord. I’ve learned some confidence in my 
opinion, having found it more than once, I may 
say, come out right ; and it gives me farther 
confidence that you take my view,” said the 
Honorable Kiffyn Fulke Verney, grandly. 

That eminent Parliamentary counsel, For- 
sythe, was on his way to the door, when Mr. 
Verney interposed with his condescension. 

“Oh! Ha! Do I? Very happy. What 
is it ?” said Forsythe, smiling briskly, glancing 
at his watch and edging toward the door, all to- 
gether. 

“ I mean the confident view — the cheerful — 
about it,” said the Hon. Mr. Verney, a little 
flushed, and laying his thin hand on his counsel’s 
arm. ^ 

“ Certainly — confident, of course, smooth 
sailing, quite. I see no hitch aX, presenV^ 

Mr. Forsythe was now, more decidedly, going. 
But he could not treat the Hon. Kiffyn Verney 
quite like an ordinary client, for he was before 
him occasionally in Committees of the House 
of Commons, and was likely soon to be so in 
others of the Lords, and, therefore, chafing and 
smiling, he hesitated under the light pressure 
of the old gentleman’s stiff fingers. 

“ And you know the, I may say, absurd state , 
of the law, about it — there was, you know, my 
unfortunate brother, Arthur — you are aware — 
civiliter mortuus, stopping the way, you know, 
for nearly twenty years, about it, ever since my 
poor father. Lord Verney, you know, expired, 
about it, and I’ve been, as you know, in the 
most painful position — absurd., you know.” 

‘ ‘ Quite so ; I’m afraid — ” Forsythe was again 
edging toward the door. 

“And I always contended that where the 
heir was civilly dead, about it, the law should 
make proper provision — don’t you see ?” 

“Quite so, only fair — a very wise and politic 
statute — and I wish very much, with your expe- 
rience, you’d turn your attention to draw one. 
I’m obliged to be off now, to meet the New 
Discount directors ; consultation at my cham- 
bers.” 

And so, smiling, Forsythe, Q.C., did vanish, 
at last. 

All this over, Mr. Cleve Verney proposed to 
himself a little excursion, of a day or two, to 
Paris, to which his uncle saw no objection. 

Not very far from the ancient town of Caen, 
where the comparative quietude of Normandy, 


! throughout the throes of the great revolution, 
has spared so many relics of the by-gone France, 
is an old chateau, still habitable — still, after a 
fashion, comfortable — and which you may have 
at a very moderate rent indeed. 

Here is an old wood, cut in a quincunx ; old 
ponds stocked with carp ; great old stables gone 
to decay ; and the chateau itself is indescribably 
picturesque and sad. 

It is the Chateau de Cresseron — withdrawn 
in historic seclusion, amid the glories and re- 
grets of memory, quite out of the tide of modern 
traffic. 

Here, by the side of one of the ponds, one 
evening, stood an old lady, throwing in little 
bits of bread to the carp that floated and flitted, 
like golden shadows, this way and that, as the 
crumbs sank in the water, when she heard a 
well-known voice near her, which made her 
start. 

“ Good heavens ! Mr. Verney ! You here ?” 
she exclaimed, with such utter wonderment, her 
little bit of bread raised in her fingers, that 
Cleve Verney, though in no merry mood, could 
not help smiling. 

^ ‘ Yes — here indeed — and after all, is it quite 
so wonderful?” said he. 

“ Well, of course you know, Mr. Verney, I’m 
very glad to see you. Of course, you know that ; 
but I’m very far from being certain that you 
have done a wise or a prudent thing in coming 
here, and I don’t know that under the circum- 
stances, I ought to be glad to see you ; in fact 
I’m afraid it is very rashf said Miss Sheckle- 
ton, growing more decided as she proceeded. 

“ No, not rash. I’ve been very miserable, so 
miserable that the worst certainty which this 
visit might bring me, would be almost a relief 
compared with the intolerable suspense I have 
lived in; therefore, you see, it really is not 
fash.” 

; “ Pm very bad at an argument,” persisted the 
old lady ; “ but it is rash, and very rash — you 
can’t conceive,” and here she lowered her voice, 
“ the state of exasperation in which he is.” 

“ He,” of course, could only mean Sir Booth 
Fanshawe ; and Cleve answered — 

“I assure you, I can’t blame him. I don’t won- 
der. I think a great deal has been very wanton- 
ly done to aggravate his misfortunes ; but sure- 
ly, he can’t fancy that I could sympathize with 
any such proceedings, or feel any thing but hor- 
ror and disgust. Surely you would not allow 
him to connect me, however slightly ? I know 
you would not.” 

. “My dear Mr. Verney, you don’t know 
Booth Fanshawe, or rather you do, I believe, 
know him a great deal too well, to fancy that I 
could venture to speak to him upon the subject. 
That, I assure you, is quite out of the question ; 
and I may as well tell you frankly, if he were 
at home, I mean here, I should have begged 
you at once, inhospitable as it might seem, to 
leave this place, and trust to time and to letters, 
but here I would not have allowed you to lin- 
ger.” 


84 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


‘‘He’s away from home, then!” exclaimed 
Cleve. 

“Yes; but he’ll be back to-night, at ten 
o’clock.” 

“At ten o’clock,” repeated Cleve, and the 
young man thought what a treasure of minutes 
there was in the interval. “And Miss Fan- 
shawe — Margaret — she’s quite well ?” 

‘ ‘ Yes, she’s quite well, ” answered kind Miss 
Sheckleton, looking in his earnest eyes, and 
thinking that he looked a little thin and pale. 
“ She’s quite well, and, I hope, you have 
been.” 

“Oh, yes,” answered the young man, “ as 
well as a man with a good many troubles can 
be. In fact, I may tell you, I’ve been very un- 
happy. I was thinking of writing to Sir Booth.” 

“ JDonH,'^ implored Miss Sheckleton, looking 
quite wildly into his eyes, and with her hand upon 
his arm, as if to arrest the writing of that letter, 
‘ ‘ you have no notion how he feels. I assure you, an 
allusion — the slightest thing is quite enough to 
set him in ablaze. The other day, for instance, 
I did not know what it was, till I took up the pa- 
per he had been reading, and I found there some- 
thing about the Verney peerage, and proof that 
Arthur Verney was dead, and your uncle to get it ; 
and really I can’t wonder — some people seem so 
unaccountably fortunate, and others, every thing 
goes wrong with — even I felt vexed when I read 
it, though of course, any good fortune happen- 
ing to you, I should be very glad of. But he 
did not see any of us till next day — even Mack- 
lin.” 

“ Yes, it is very true,” said Cleve, “ my uncle 
is dead, and we shall prove it, that is, my uncle 
Kiffyn will. But you are quite right to distin- 
guish as you do. It involves nothing for me. 
Since it has come so near, I have lost all faith 
in its ever reaching me. I have, I can’t call, it 
a conviction, but a superstition, that it never will. 
I must build my own fortunes from their founda- 
tions, with my own hand. There is but one 
success on earth that can make me very proud 
and very happy. Do you think, that having 
come all this way, in that hope, on that one 
chance, that Margaret will see me ?” 

“ I wish you had written to me before com- 
ing,” said Anne Sheckleton, after a little pause. 
“ I should have liked to find out first, all I could, 
from herself, she is so odd. I’ve often told 
you that she is odd. I think it would have 
been wiser to write to me before coming over, 
and I should have talked to her, that is, of 
course, if she had allowed me, for I can’t in the 
least say, that she would even hear me on the 
subject.” 

“ Well,” said Cleve, with a sigh, “ I have 
come — I am here — and go I can not without 
seeing her — I can not— and you, I think, are too 
kind to wish that I should. Yes, Miss Sheckle- 
ton, you have been my true friend throughout this 
— what shall I call it ? — wild and terrible dream 
— for I can not believe it real — I wonder at it 
myself — I ought to wish I had never seen her — 
but I can not — and I think on the result of this 


visit depends the whole course of my life. You’ll 
not see me long, I think, in the House of Com- 
mons, nor in England ; but I’ll tell you more 
by and by. 

It was sunset now. A red and melancholy 
glow, rising from piles of western cloud, melted 
gradually eastward into the deep blue of night, 
in which the stars were already glimmering. 

Along one of the broad avenues cut through 
the forest that debouches upon the court-yard of 
the quaint old chateau they were now walking, 
and raising his eyes, he saw Margaret approach- 
ing from the antique house. 


CHAPTEK XXXVI. 

SHE COMES AND SPEAKS. 

“ She is coming, Mr. Verney,” said Miss 
Sheckleton, speaking low and quietly ; but her 
voice sounded a little strangely, and I think 
the good-natured spinster was agitated. 

Cleve, walking by her side, made no answer. 
He saw Margaret approach, and while she W'as 
yet a good way oif, suddenly stop. She had 
not seen them before. There seemed no inde- 
cision. It was simply that she was started and 
stood still. 

“ Fray, Miss Sheckleton, do you go on alone. 
Entreat her not to refuse me a few minutes,” 
said he. 

“ I will — she shall — I will, indeed, Mr. Ver- 
ney,” said Miss Sheckleton, very much fidgeted. 

‘ ‘ But you had better remain where you were, 
just now ; I will return to you, and — there are 
some French servants at the house — will you 
think me very strange — unkind, I am sure, 
you will not — if I say it is only common pru- 
dence that you should not be seen at the house ? 
You understand why I say so.” 

“ Certainly. I shall do whatever you think 
best,” he answered. They had arrested their 
walk, as Margaret had done, during this little 
parley. Perhaps she was uncertain whether her 
approach had been observed. The sun had gone 
down by this time, and the twilight had begun 
to make distant objects a little indistinct. 

But there was no time for manoeuvring here, 
for Miss Fanshawe resumed her walk, and her 
cousin, Anne Sheckleton, advanced alone to 
meet her. 

“Margaret, dear, a friend has unexpectedly 
arrived,” began Miss Sheckleton. 

“And gone, perhaps,” answered Margaret 
Fanshawe, in one of her moods. ‘^Better gone 
— come, darling, let us turn, and go toward 
home — it is growing so dark.” 

And with these words, taking Miss Sheckle- 
ton’s hand in hers, she turned toward the house, 
not choosing to see the friend whom that elderly 
lady had so eagerly indicated. 

Strangely did Cleve Verney feel. That beau- 
tiful, cruel girl! — what could she mean? — 
how could she treat him so ? Is there not, in 
strange countries, where people meet, a kindlier 
impulse than elsewhere ? — and here — could any 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 85 


thing be more stony and utterly cruel ? The 
same wonderful Cenci — the same low, sweet voice 
— the same laugh, even — just for a moment — 
but now — how unspeakably cruel ! He could 
see that Miss Sheckleton was talking earnestly 
to her as they walked slowly away. It all 
seemed like a dream. The formal old wood — 
the gray chateau in the background, rising, with 
its round turrets, and conical tops, and steep 
roofs against the rose-tinted sky of evening ; and 
in the foreground — not two-score steps away — 
those figures — that girl to whom so lately he 
was so near being all the world — to whom, it 
now appeared, he was absolutly nothing — oh ! 
that he had never heard, in Shakespeare’s phrase, 
that mermaid voice ! 

His pride was wounded. With a yearning 
that amounted to agony, he watched their reced- 
ing steps. Follow them he would not. He 
leaned against the tree by which Miss Sheckle- 
ton had left him, and half resolved to quit that 
melancholy scene of his worst disaster without 
another look or word — Vvdth only the regrets of 
all a life. 

When Miss Sheckleton had reached Margaret, 
before the young lady spoke, she saw, by her 
unusual paleness and by something at once of 
pain and anger in her face, that she had seen 
Cleve Yerney. 

“Well, Margaret, if you will go, you will; 
but, before you make it irreparable, you must, 
at least, think.” 

“Think of what?” said Margaret, a little 
disdainfully. 

“Think that he has come all this way for 
nothing but a chance of seeing you ; of perhaps 
saying a few words to set himself right. 

“ If he wished to speak to me, he might have 
said so,” she answered. “Not that I see any 
reason to change my mind on that point, or any 
good that can come, possibly, or forever, if he 
could talk and I listen for so long.” 

“ Well, but you can’t doubt what he has 
come for,” said Miss Sheckleton. 

“ I don’t doubt, because I don’t mean to 
think about it,” said the young lady, looking 
fiercely up toward the gilded weather-vanes that 
swung gently on the grey pinnacles of the cha- 
teau. 

“ Yes, but it is not a matter of doubt, or of 
thinking, but of fact, for he did say so,” pleaded 
Miss Sheckleton. 

“ I wish we were in Italy, or some out of the 
way part of Spain,” said the handsome girl, in 
the same vein, and walking still onward; “I 
always said this was too near England, too 
much in the current.” 

“No, dear, it is a’ quiet place,” said good 
Anne Sheckleton. 

“ No, cousin Anne, *it is the most «??quiet 
place in all the world,” answered the girl, in a 
wild, low tone, as she walked on. 

‘ ‘ And he wants to speak to you ; he entreats 
a few words, a very few.” 

“ You hnoiu I ought not,” said she. 

“ I know you ou^ghty my dear ; you’ll be sorry 


for it, all your days, Margaret, if you don’t,” re- 
plied Anne Sheckleton. 

“ Come home, dear, come home, darling,” 
said the girl, peremptorily, but sadly. 

“ I say, Margaret, if you let him go without 
speaking to him, you will regret it all your 
days. ” 

“You have no right to talk this way, cousin 
Anne ; I am unhappy enough as it is ; come on, ” 
said she. 

“ If you send him away, as I say, it is all 
over between you.” 

“So it is, it is all over ; let the dead rest.” 

“ The world is wide enough ; there are many 
beautiful creatures there, and he is himself so 
beautiful, and so clever ; be very sure you care 
nothing for him, before you send him away, for you 
will never see him again,” said Miss Anne Shec- 
kleton.. 

“I know — I am sure — I have thought of 
every thing. I have made up my account long 
ago, for now, and for all my days,” said she. 

“So you havcy" answered Miss Sheckleton. 
“But while you have a moment still allowed you, 
Margaret, review it, I entreat of you.” 

“ Come, darling, come — come — ^you ought 
not to have spoken to me ; why have you said 
all this ?” said Margaret sadly, and hurriedly. 

“Now, Margaret darling, you are going to 
stay for a moment, and I will call him.” 

“ No said the girl passionately, ‘ ‘ my mind’s 
made up ; not in haste, cousin Anne, but long 
ago. I’ve looked my last on him.’’ 

“Now, darling, listen: you know, Tve seen 
him, he’s looking ill, I think ; and I’ve told him 
that you must speak to him, Margaret ; and I 
tell you you must,” said Miss Sheckleton, blush- 
ing in her eagerness. 

“No, cousin Anne, let there be an end of 
this between us ; I thought it was over long ago. 
To him, I will never, never — while life remains 
— never speak more.” 

As she thus spoke, walking more hurriedly 
toward the house, she heard a voice beside her 
say— 

“Margaret! Margaret, darling — one word!” 

And turning suddenly, she saw Cleve Yerney 
before her. Under the thick folds of her chestnut 
hair, her features were pale as marble, and for a 
time, it seemed to him he saw nothing but her 
wild, beautiful eyes fixed upon him. 

Still as a statue, she stood confronting him. 
One little foot advanced, and her tiny hand 
closed, and pressed to her heart in the attitude 
in which an affrighted nun might hold her 
crucifix. 

“Yes, Margaret,” he said at last, “I was as 
near going — as you were of leaving me — un- 
heard : but, thank God, that is not to be. No, 
Margaret darling, you coidd not. Wild as my 
words may sound in your ears, you will list- 
en to them, for they shall be few; you will 
listen to them, for you are too good to condemn 
any one that ever loved you unheard.” 

There was a little pause, during which all 
that passed was a silent pressure of Miss Sheckle- 


86 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


ton’s hand upon Margaret’s, as very pale, and 
with her brow knit in a painful anxiety, she 
drew hurriedly back, and left the two young 
people together, standing by the roots of the old 
tree, under the faint, rose-tinted sky of evening. 

Lovers’ promises or lovers’ cruelties — which 
oaths are most enduring? Where now were 
Margaret’s vows ? Oh ! inexhaustible fountain 
of pity, and beautiful mutability of woman’s 
heart ! In the passion avowed, so often some- 
thing of simulation; in the feeling disowned, 
so often the true and beautiful life. Who shall 
read this wonderful riddle, running in romance, 
and in song, and in war, the world’s history 
through ? 

‘‘Margaret, will you hear me?” he pleaded. 

To her it was like a voice in a dream, and a 
form seen there, in that dream-land in which 
w^e meet the dead, without wonder, forgetting 
time and separation. 

“I don’t know that I ought to change my 
purpose. I don’t know why I do ; but we shall 
never meet again, I am sure, so speak on.” 

“ Yes, Margaret, I will speak on, and tell you 
how entirely you have mistaken and wronged 
me,” said Cleve Verney, in the same sad and 
passionate tones. 

Good-natured Anne Sheckleton, w^atching at 
a little distance, saw the talk — at first belonging 
altogether to Mr. Verney, at last begin to divide 
itself a little ; then side by side they walked a 
few steps, and then paused again : and so once 
more a short way, the lady looking down, and 
then on and on to the margin of that long 
straight pond, on w'hich in their season are 
floating water-lilies, and under its great oblong 
mirror, gliding those golden fishes which are, as 
w’e have seen, one of our spinster friend’s kindly 
resources in this quaint exile. And so the twi- 
light deepened ; and Miss Sheckleton saw these 
two figures like shadows gliding side by side, 
to and fro, along the margin, till the moonlight 
came and lighted the still pool over, and dappled 
the sward with the shadows of the trees, and 
made the old chateau in the background, with 
its white front, its turrets and pinnacles and 
gilded vanes, look filmy as a fairy castle. 

Wrapping her cloak about her, she sat her- 
self down upon the marble seat close by, unob- 
served and pleased, watching this picture of Lo- 
renzo and Jessica, and of all such moonlighted 
colloquies, with a wonderful and excited interest 
— with, indeed, a mixture of melancholy and 
delight and fear. 

Half hour after half hour glided by, as she 
looked on this picture, and read in fancy the 
romance that was weaving itself out of the sil- 
very thread of their sweet discourse in this sad 
old scene. And then she looked at her watch, 
and wondered how the time had sped, and 
siglied; and smiling and asking no question, 
came before them, and in a low, gentle w^arning, 
told them that the hour for parting had come. 

As they stood side by side in the moonlight, 
did the beautiful girl, with the flush of that 
romantic hour, never, never to be forgotten, on 


her cheek, with its light in her w^onderful eyes, 
ever look so beautiful before ? Or did that 
young man, Cleve Verney, whom she thought 
she understood, but did not, ever look so hand- 
some? — the enthusiasm and the glow of his 
victory in his strangely beautiful face. 

There were a few silent moments : and she 
thought could fancy paint a more beautiful 
young couple than these ! 

There are scenes — only momentary — so near 
Paradise — sights, so nearly angelic, that they 
touch ns with a mysterious ecstasy and sor- 
row. In the glory and translation of the mo- 
ment, the feeling of its transitariness, and the 
sense of our mortal lot, cross and thrill us 
with a strange pain, like the mysterious anguish 
that mingles in the rapture of sublime music. 
So Miss Sheckleton, very pale, smiling very 
tenderly, sobbed and wept, one would have said 
bitterly, for a little while ; and, drying her eyes 
quickly, saw before her the same beautiful 
young faces looking upon hers; and the old 
lady took their hands and pressed them, and 
smiled a great deal through her tears, and said 
— “All, at last, as I wished it: God bless you 
both — God Almighty bless you, my darling : ” 
and she put her arms about Margaret’s neck, 
and kissed her very tenderly. 

And then came the reminder, that must not 
be slighted. The hour had come, indeed, and 
Cleve must positively go. Miss Sheckleton 
would hear of no farther delay — no, not anoth- 
er minute. Her fear of Sir Booth wns pro- 
found ; so with a “ God bless you, darling,” and 
a very pale face, and — why should there not be 
— one long, long kiss, Cleve Verney took his 
leave, and was gone ; and the sailing moon lost 
herself among clouds, so darkness stole swdftly 
over the landscape. 

Margaret Fanshawe drew her dear old cousin 
near to her, and in turn, placing her arms round 
her neck, folded her close, and Anne Sheckle- 
ton could feel the wild throbbing of the young 
girl’s heart close to her own. 

Margaret was not weeping, but she stood 
very pale, with her arms still laid on her cousin’s 
shoulders, and looked almost wildly down into 
her wistful eyes. 

“ Cousin Anne — oh, darling ! you must pray 
for me,” said Margaret Fanshawe. “ I thought 
it could never be ; I thought I knew myself, 
but all that is vain ; there is another will above 
us — Fate — Eternal Fate, and I am where 1 am, 

I know not how.” 

“Why, Margaret, darling, it is what I have 
been longing for — the very best thing that could 
have happened ; you ought to be the happiest 
girl in the world,” urged Miss Anne Sheckleton, 
cheerily. 

“No, darling ; I am not happy, except in 
this, that I know I love him, and would not give 
him up for all the w'orld ; but it seems to me to 
have been, from first to last, a fatality, and I 
can’t shake off* the fear that lies at my heart.” 

“ Hush, dear — I hear wheels, I think,” said 
Miss Sheckleton, listening. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


87 


Margaret was preoccupied, and did not listen. 
I don’t think she cared much at that moment 
who came or went, except that one to whom 
her love was now irrevocably given. 

“No ; I can’t hear — no ; but he will be here 
immediately. We must not be out, you know; 
he may ask for me, and he is so — so very — what 
shall I say?” 

Margaret did not mind. She turned a wild 
and plaintive look upward toward the strug- 
gling moon — now emerging, now lost again — 
and she said — 

“Come, darling — let us go,” said Margaret. 

And she looked round her gently, as if awak- 
ing from a dream. 

“Come darling,” she continued, placing her 
hand on Anne Sheckleton’s arm. 

“Yes; and you are not to tease yourself, 
Margaret, dear, with fancies and follies. As I 
said before, you ought to be one of the happiest 
girls in existence.” 

“ So I am — in a sense — in a degree,” she 
answered, dreamily — “very happy — oh! won- 
derfully happy — but there is — and I can’t help 
it — the feeling of something overhanging me. 
I don’t know what — fatal, as I said ; but, be it 
what it may, let it come. I could not lose him 
now, for all the world.” 

She was looking up, as she spoke, toward the 
broken moonlight, herself as pale, and a strange 
plaintive smile of rapture broke over her beauti- 
ful face, as if answering the smile of a spirit in 
the air. 

“ Come, darling, come,” whispered Miss 
Sheckleton, and they walked side by side in 
silence to the house, and so to Margaret’s room, 
where she sat down by the window, loooking out, 
and kind Anne Sheckleton sat by the table, with 
her thin old hand to her cheek, watching her 
fondly, and awaiting an opportunity to speak, 
for she was longing to hear a great deal more. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

CLEVE VERNEY HAS A VISITOR. 

So Cleve Verney returned to England, and his 
friends thought his trip to Paris, short as it was, 
had done him a world of good. What an 
alterative and tonic a little change of air some- 
times is I 

The Honorable Kiffyn Fulke Verney was, in 
his high, thin-minded way, at last tolerably con- 
tent, and more pompous and respected than ever. 
The proof of his succession to the peerage of 
Verney was in a perfectly satisfactory state. He 
would prove it and take his seat next Session. 
He would add another to the long list of Lords 
Viscounts Verney of Malory to be found in the 
gold and scarlet chronicle of such dignities. He 
had arranged with the trustees for a provisional 
possession of Verney House, the great stone man- 
sion which blocks one side of the small parallel- 
ogram called Verney Square. Already contractors 
had visited it and explored its noble chambers 


and long corridors, with foot-rule and note-book, 
getting together material for tenders, and Cleve 
had already a room there when he came up to 
town. Some furniture had got in, and some 
servants were established there also, and so the 
stream of life had begun to transfuse itself from 
the old town residence of the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke 
Verney into these long-forsaken channels. 

Here, one morning, called a gentleman named 
Dingwell, whom Cleve Verney, happening to be 
in town, desired the servant to show into the 
room where he sat, with his breakfast, and his 
newspapers about him. 

The tall old man entered, with a slight stoop, 
leering, Cleve thought, a little sarcastically over 
his shoulder as he did so. 

Mr. Dingwell underwent Mr. Cleve Verney’s 
reception, smiling oddly, under his white eye- 
brows, after his wont. 

“ I suspect some little mistake, isn’t there?” 
said he, in his cold, harsh, quiet tones. “You can 
hardly be the brother of my old friend Arthur 
Verney. I had hoped to see Mr. Kiffyn Fulke 
V erney — I — eh ? ’ ’ 

“ I’m his nephew.” 

“Oh! nephew? Yes — another generation — 
yes, of course. I called to see the Honorable 
Kiffyn Fulke Verney. I was not able to attend 
the consultation, or whatever you call it. You 
know I’m your principal witness, eh? Ding- 
w'ell’s my name.” 

“ Oh, to be sure — I beg pardon, Mr. Dingwell,” 
said Cleve, who, by one of those odd slips of 
memory, which sometimes occur, had failed to 
connect the name with the case, on its turning 
up thus unexpectedly. 

“ I hope your admirable uncle, Kiffyn Verney, 
is, at all events, alive and approachable^ said 
the old man, glancing grimly about the room ; 
“though perhaps you^re his next heir, and the 
hope is hardly polite?” 

This impertinence of Mr. Dingwell’s Mr. 
Cleve Verney, who knew his importance, and 
had heard something of his odd temper, resented 
only by asking him to be seated. 

“ Thatf said the old man, with a vicious 
laugh and a flush, also angry, “ is a liberty which 
I was about to take uninvited, by right of my years 
and fatigue, eh ?” 

And he sat down with the air of a man who is 
rather nettled than pleased by an attention. 

“And what about Mr. Kiffyn Verney?” he 
asked, sharply. 

“ My uncle is in the country,” answered Cleve, 
who would have liked to answer the fool according 
to his folly, but he succumbed to the necessity, in- 
culcated with much shrewdness, garnished with 
some references to Scripture, by Mr. Jos. Larkin, 
of indulging the eccentricities of Mr. Dingwell’s 
temper a little. 

“ Then he is alive ? I’ve heard such an ac- 
count of the Verneys, their lives are so brittle, 
and snap so suddenly ; my poor friend Arthur 
told me, and that Jew fellow Levi here, who 
seems so intimate with the family — d — n him ! 
says the same : no London house likes to insure 


88 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


no one I it’s for love of your old uncle or of you that I 


them. Well, I see you don’t like it : 
does ; the smell of the coffin, sir ; time enough 
when we are carrion, ai;d fill it. Ha, ha, ha !” 

‘‘Yes, sir, 5'm^e,”said Cleve, dryly. 

“ No young man likes the sight of that stinking 
old lantern-jawed fellow, who shall be nameless, 
looking over his spade so slyly ; but the best way 
is to do as I’ve done. Since you must meet him 
(me day, go up to him, and make his acquaintance, 
and shake hands ; and egad ! when you’ve grown 
a little bit intimate, he’s not half so disgusting, 
and sometimes he’s even a little bit funny.” 

“If I were thinking of the profession of a 
sexton, or an undertaker, I might,” began Cleve, 
who felt a profound disgust of this old Mr. Ding- 
well, “ but as I don’t, and since by the time it 
comes to my turn I shall be pretty well past see- 
ing and smelling — ” 

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Mr. Ding- 
well, with one of his ugly smirks. “ But it isn’t 
about such matters that I want to trouble you ; 
in fact, I came to say a word to your uncle ; but 
as I can’t see him, you can tell him, and urge it 
more eloquently too, than I can. You and he 
are both orators by profession ; and tell him he 
must give me five hundred pounds immediately. 

‘ ‘ Five hundred pounds ! Why V' said Cleve, 
with a scornful surprise. 

“ Because I want it,” answered the old gentle- 
man, squaring himself, and with the corner of 
his mouth drawn oddly in, his white head a little 
on one side, and his eyebrows raised, with al- 
together an air of vicious defiance, 

“ You have had your allowance raised very 
much, sir — it is an exorbitant allowance — what 
reason can you now urge for this, I must say, 
extraordinary request?” answered Cleve. 

“The same reason, sir, precisely. If I don’t 
get it I shall go away, re wfecta, and leave you 
to find out proof of the death how you may.” 

Cleve was very near giving this vile old ex- 
tortioner a bit of his mind, and ordering him out 
of the house, on the instant. But Mr. Larkin 
had been so very urgent on the point, that he 
commanded himself. 

“ I hardly think, sir, you can be serious,” said 
Cleve. 

“Egad, sir, you’ll find it a serious matter if 
you don’t; for, upon my soul, unless I’m paid, 
and well paid for it. I’ll depose to nothing.” 

“That’s plain speaking at all events,” said 
Ml*. Cleve Verney. 

“Oh! sir, I’ll speak more plainly still,” said 
Mr. Dingwell, with a short sarcastic bow. “ I 
never mince matters ; life is too short for circum- 
locutions. 

“ Verney life, at all events, by your account, 
sir, and I don’t desire them. I shall mention 
the matter to my uncle to-day in my letter, but 
I really can’t undertake to do more, for I may 
tell you frankly, Mr. Dingwell, I can’t for the 
life of me understand what you can possibly 
want of such a sum.” 

“ I suppose, young gentleman, you have your 
pleasures, and I have mine, and they’re not to be 
had without money ; and egad, sir, if you fancy 


am here, and taking all this trouble, you are very 
much mistaken ; and if I help you to this house, 
and the title, and estates. I’ll take leave to help 
myself to some little amusement — money I 
mean, also. Cool fellows, egad.” 

The brown features of the old man flushed 
again angrily as he laughed. 

“ Well, Mr. Dingwell, I can only repeat what 
I have said, and I will also speak to Mr. Larkin. 
I have no power in the business myself, and 
you had better talk to him,” said Cleve. 

“I prefer the fountain-head, sir. I don’t 
care twopence how you arrange it among your- 
selves ; but you must give me the money by 
Saturday.” 

“ Rather an early day, Mr. Dingwell ; how- 
ever, as I said, the question is for my uncle, it 
can’t affect me,” said Cleve. 

Mr. Dingwell mused angrily for a little, and 
Cleve thought his face one of the wickedest he 
had ever seen, while in this state of excited 
rumination. 

“You all — both owe me more in that man’s 
death — there are very odd eircumstances about 
it, I ean tell you — than, perhaps, you at pres- 
ent imagine,” said Mr. Dingwell, looking up 
suddenly, with a dismal sneer, which subsided 
into an equally dismal stare. 

Cleve for a second or two returned the stare, 
while the question crossed his mind — “ Can the 
old villain mean that my miserable uncle met 
liis death by foul means, in which he took a 
part, and intends to throw that consideration in 
with his averred services to enhance his claim ?” 

“ You had better tell your uncle with my 
compliments,” said Mr. Dingwell, “ that he’ll 
make a kettle of fish of the whole aflair, in a 
way he doesn’t expect, unless he makes matters 
square with me. I often think I’m a d — d idiot, 
sir, to let you off as I do.” 

“ I don’t sec, Mr. Dingwell, that you are let- 
ting us off, as you say, so very easily,” answer- 
ed Cleve, with a cold smile. 

“No, you dorit see, but I’ll male you see it,” 
said Mr. Dingwell, very tartly, and with an un- 
pleasant laugh. “Arthur Verney was always 
changing his quarters — was never in the light. 
He went by different nicknames. There were 
in all Constantinople but two men, except my- 
self, the Consul, and the stock-broker, who cash- 
ed the money-orders for him, who could identi- 
fy him, or who knew his name. He lived in 
the dark, and not very cleanly — you’ll excuse 
the simile — like one of your sewer-rats. He 
died suddenly and oddly, sir, like a candle on 
which has fallen a drop of water, with a splut- 
ter and a flash, in a moment — one of your Ver- 
ney deaths, sir. You might as well hope to 
prove the death of a particular town-dog there, 
without kennel, or master, or name, a year aft- 
er his brothers had eaten him. So, sir, I see 
my value.” 

“I don’t recollect that my uncle ever dis- 
puted it,” replied Mr. Cleve Verney. 

“ I understand your difficulty perfectly. The 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


89 


presumption of English law, ha ! ha ! ha ! is in 
favor of duration of human life, whenever you 
can’t prove a death. So, English law, which 
■we can’t dispute — for it is the perfection of hu- 
man wisdom — places the putrid body of my late 
friend Arthur in the robes, coronet, and staff 
of the Verneys, and would give him the spend- 
ing of the rents, too, but that you can’t make a 
horse drink, though you may bring him to the 
water. At all events, sir, my festering friend 
in the shroud will hold secure possession of the es- 
tates against all comers till he exhausts that pa- 
tient presumption, and sees Kiffyn, and you, sir, 
and every Verney now alive, laid with their 
faces upward. So, sir, you see I know my val- 
ue. I have the grand arcanum ; I hold in my 
hand the Philosopher’s Stone that can turn 
your pewter and brass into gold. I hold it fast, 
sir, and egad ! I’ll run away with it, unless I 
see a reason.” And the old gentleman laughed, 
and shrugged and expanded his slender hands 
■wdth a deprecation that was menacing. 

Cleve was very angry, but he was also alarm- 
ed ; for Mr. Dingwell looked quite capable of 
any treason against the Verney interest to 
which his avarice or his spites might prompt 
him. A wild, cold, wandering eye, a play of 
the nostrils, and a corrugation of the brows that 
gave to his smile, or his laugh, a menace that 
was villainous, and almost insane — warned the 
young man of the quality of the beast, and in- 
vited him to the exercise of all his self-con- 
trol. 

“I am quite certain, Mr. Dingwell, that my 
uncle will do whatever is reasonable and fair, and 
I am also sure that he feels his obligations to 
you. I shall take care that he hears all that 
you have said, and you understand that I literal- 
ly have neither power nor influence in his de- 
cision.” 

“Well, he feels his obligations?” said Mr. 
Dingwell. “ That is pleasant.” 

“Certainly; and, as I said, whatever is fair 
and reasonable I am certain he will do, ’’said 
Cleve Verney. 

“Fair and reasonable — that is exactly the 
thing — tlie value; and you know — 

‘ The worth precise of any thing 
Is so much money as ’twill bring.’ 

And I’ll make it bring what I say ; and I make 
it a rule to treat money matters in the grossest 
terms, because that is the only language which 
is at once intelligible and direct — and grossness 
I believe to be the soul of business ; and, so, sir, 
tell him with my compliments, I shall expect 
five hundred pounds at ten o’clock in the morn- 
ing, in Bank of England notes.” 

At this moment the servant announced the 
Rev. Isaac Dixie, and Mr. Dingwell stood up, 
and, looking with a kind of amusement and 
scorn round the room upon the dusty portraits, 
made a sharp bow to Cleve Verney, and say- 

“ Tliat’s all; good-morning, sir,”—- with 
anotlier nod, turned about, and walked jauntily 
out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE REV. ISAAC DIXIE SETS FORTH ON A MIS- 
SION. 

There was a basis of truth in all that Mr. 
Dingwell had said, which made his voice more 
grating, his eyes more dangerous, and his lan- 
guage more disgusting. 

Would that Fortune had sent them. Clove 
thought, some enchanted horse, other than that 
beast, to fly them into the fairy-land of their 
long deferred ambition! Would that she had 
sent them a Rarey, to lead them by a metaphor- 
ic halter, and quell, by his art, the devil within 
him — the evil spirit before which something in 
Cleve’s nature quailed, because it seemed to 
know nothing but appetite, and was destitute of 
human sympathy or moral foresight. 

Dingwell was beset with dangers and devils 
of his own ; but he stood in his magic circle, 
making mouths and shaking his fist, and grin- 
ning at them. He seemed to have no imagina- 
tion to awe, or prudence to restrain him. He 
was aware, and so was Cleve, that Larkin knew 
all about his old bankruptcy, the judgments 
against him, the imiDOunded forgeries on which 
he had been on the brink of indictment, and his 
escape from prison ; and yet he railed at Lar- 
kin, and defied the powerful Verneys, as if he 
had been an angel sent to illuminate, to lecture, 
and to rule them. 

Mr. Larkin was usually an adroit and etTect- 
ual tamer of evil beasts, in such case as this 
Mr. Dingwell. He waved his thin w^and of 
red-hot iron with a Jight and firm hand, and 
made every raw smoke in turn, till the lion was 
fit to lie down with the lamb. But this Ding- 
well was an eccentric brute ; he had no aw'c for 
the superior nature, no respect for the imposing 
airs of the tamer — not the slightest appreciation 
even of his cautery. On the contrary, he seemed 
to like the sensation, and amuse himself with 
the exposure of his sores to the inspection of Mr. 
Larkin, who began to feel himself drawn into an 
embarrassing and highly disreputable confidence. 

Mr. Larkin had latterly quite given up the 
idea of frightening Mr. Dingwell, for when he 
tried that method, Mr. Dingwell had grown un- 
comfortably lively and skittish, and, in fact, 
frightened the exemplary Mr. Larkin confound- 
edly. He had recapitulated his own enormities 
with an elation and frightful merriment worthy 
of a scandalous corner at a Walpurges ball ; 
had demonstrated that he perfectly understood 
the game of the serious attoney, and showed 
himself so curiously thick of skin, and wdthal so 
sportive and formidable a rhinoceros, that Mr. 
Larkin then and there learned a lesson, and vowed 
no more to try the mesmerism that succeeded 
with others, or the hot rod of iron under which 
they winced and gasped and Succumbed. 

Such a systematic, and even dangerous defi- 
ance of every thing good, he had never encoun- 
tered before. Such a person exactly as this 
Mr. Dingwell he could not have imagined. 
There was, he feared, a vein of insanity in that 


90 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


unfortunate man which made him insensible to 
the extreme peril of his own position, and ena- 
bled him actually to frighten the cautious 
Mr. Larkin, who was always girded with three 
coats of mail, and seven walls of brass, and I 
know not how many talismans besides. 

He had seen quite enough of the horrid adroit- 
ness of Mr. Dingwell’s horse-play, and felt such 
qualms whenever that animal capered and snort- 
ed, that he contented himself with musing and 
wondering over his unintelligible idiosyncrasies, 
and adopted a studiously soothing treatment 
with him — talked to him in a friendly, and even 
tender way — and had some vague plans of get- 
ting him ultimately into a mad-house. 

But Mr. Dingwell was by this time getting 
into his cab, with a drapery of mufflers round 
him, and telling the man through the front win- 
dow to drive to Eosemary Court ; he leaned back in 
a corner, and chuckled and snorted in a conceited 
ecstasy over his victory, and the money which 
w'as coming to minister to no good in this evil 
world. 

Now Cleve Verney leaned back in his chair, 
and there rose before him a view of a moon- 
lighted wood, and old chateau, with its many 
peaked turrets, and steep roofs, showing silvery 
against the deep, liquid sky of night, and with a 
sigh he saw on the white w^orn steps that beau- 
tiful, w'onderful shape that was his hope and 
his fate ; and as he leaned on his hand, the Kev- 
erend Isaac Dixie, whose name had strangely 
summoned this picture from the sea of his fan- 
cy, entered the room, smiling rosily, after his 
wont, and extending hi^ broad hand, as he 
marched with deliberate strides across the floor, 
as much to say — “ Here I am, your own old tu- 
tor and admirer, who always predicted great 
things for you ; I know you are charmed, as I 
am ; I know how you will greet me.” 

“ Ha! old Dixie,” and Cleve got up, with 
a kind of effort, and not advancing very far, 
shook hands. 

‘ ‘ So you have got your leave — a week — or 
how long ?” 

‘‘ I have arranged for next Sunday, that’s all, 
my dear Mr. Verney ; some little inconvenience, 
but very happy — always happy.” 

“Come, I want to have a talk with you,” 
said Clove, drawing the clergyman to a chair. 
“Don’t you remember, you ought, you know, 
what Lord Sparkish (isn’t it?) says in Swift’s 
Polite Conversations — ‘ ’Tis as cheap sitting as 
standing.’ ” 

The clergyman took the chair, simpering 
bashfully, for the allusion w^as cruel, and refer- 
red to a time when the Eeverend Isaac Dixie, 
being as yet young in the ways of the world, and 
somewhat slow in apprehending literary ironies, 
had actually put his pupil through a grave course 
of “Polite Conversation,” which he picked up 
among some old volumes of the works of the 
great Dean of St. Patrick’s, on the school-room 
shelf at Malory. 

“And for my accomplishment of saying 
smart things in a polite way, I am entirely 


obliged to you and Dean Swift,” said Cleve 
mischievously. 

“Ah ! ha! you were always fond of a jest, 
my dear Mr. Verney ; you liked poking fun, you 
did, at your old tutor ; but you know how that 
really was — I have explained it so often ; still, 
I do allow, the jest is not a bad one.” 

But Cleve’s mind was already on quite 
another subject. 

“And now, Dixie,” said he, with a sharp 
glance into the clergyman’s eyes, “you know, 
or at least you guess, what it is I want you to do 
for me ?” 

The clergyman looked down by his gaiter, 
with his head a little on one side, and his mouth 
a little pursed j and said he, after a momentary 
silence — 

“I really, I may say unaffectedly^ assure you 
that I do not.” 

“You’re a queer fellow, old Dixie,” said 
Cleve; “you won’t be vexed, but you are al- 
ways a little bit too clever ; I did not tell you 
exactly, but I told you enough to enable you to 
guess it. Don’t you remember our last talk ; 
come now, Dixie, you’re no muff.” 

“ I hope not, my dear Cleve ; I may be, but 
I don’t pretend to that character, though I have 
still, I apprehend, much to learn in the world’s 
ways.” 

“ Yes, of course,” said the young man ; and 
tapped his small teeth, that glittered under his 
mustache, with the end of his pencil-case, 
while he lazily Watched the face of the clergy- 
man from under his long lashes. 

“And I assure you,” continued the clergy- 
man, “ if I were to pretend that I did appre- 
hend your intentions, I should be guilty of an 
inaccuracy amounting, in fact, to an untruth.” 

He thought he detected something a little 
mocking in the handsome face of the young 
gentleman, and could not tell, in the shadow of 
the w'indow-curtain, whether those even w'hite 
teeth were not smiling at him outright ; and a 
little nettled, but not forgetting himself, he went 
on — 

“You know, my dear Cleve, it is noth- 
ing on earth to me — absolutely ; I act merely to 
oblige — merely, I mean to be useful — if in my 
power, consistently with all other considerations, 
and I speak, I humbly but confidently hope, 
habitually the truth — ” 

“ Of course you do,” said the young gentle- 
man, with emphasis, and growing quite serious 
again.. “It is very kind, I know, your coming 
all this W'ay, and managing your week’s absence ; 
and you may for the present know just as little 
or as much of the matter as you please ; only 
mind, this is — not of course in any wrong sense 
— a dark business — awfully quiet. They say 
that in England a talent for speaking may raise 
a man to any thing, but I think a talent for 
holding one’s tongue is sometimes a better one. 
And — I am quite serious, old Dixie — I’ll not 
forget your fidelity to me, upon my honor — 
really, never ; and as you know, I may yet have 
the power of proving it.” 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


91 


The Key. Isaac Dixie folded his hands, and 
hung his head sideways in a meek modesty, and 
withal smiled so rosily and gloriously, as he sat 
in front of the window, that had it happened 
an hour before sunrise, the sparrows in the ivy 
all along the stable walls would undoubtedly 
have mistaken it for the glow of Aurora, and 
commenced their chirping and twittering saluta- 
tions to the dawn an hour too soon. 

It is very gratifying, very, you can not read- 
ily estimate, my dear, and — may I not say ? — 
my illustrious pupil, how gratifying to me, quite 
irrespective of all those substantially kind in- 
tentions which you are pleased to avow in my 
behalf, to hear from your lips so frank and — may 
I say — almost affectionate a declaration ; so 
just an estimate of my devotion to your inter- 
ests, and I may say, I hope, of my character 
generally ?” 

The Eector of Clay was smiling with a huge 
bashfulness, and slowing folding and rubbing 
one hand over the other, with his head gently 
inclined, and his great blue chin upon his guile- 
less, single-breasted, black silk bosom, as he 
spoke all this in mellow effusion. 

‘‘ Now, Dixie,” said the young man, while a 
very anxious expression for the first time show- 
ed itself in his face, “I want you to do me a 
kindness — a kindness that will tie me to you all 
the days of my life. It is something, but not 
much ; chiefly that you will have to keep a se- 
cret, and take some little trouble, which I know 
you don’t mind ; but nothing serious, not the 
slightest irregularity, a trifle, I assure you, and 
chiefly, as I said, that you will have to keep a 
secret for me.” 

Dixie also looked a good deal graver as he bow- 
ed his acquiescence, trying to smile on, and still 
sliding his hands softly, one over the other. 

“ I know you guess what it is — no matter — 
we’ll not discuss it, dear Dixie ; it’s quite past 
that now. You’ll have to make a little trip for 
me — you’ll not mind it ; only across what you 
used to call the herring-pond; and you must 
wait at the Silver Lion at Caen ; it is the best 
place there — I wish it was better — not a soul 
will see you — I mean English, no one but quiet 
French people ; and there is quite amusement, 
for a day or so, in looking over the old town. 
Just wait there, and I’ll let you know every 
thing before you have been two days there. I’ve 
got your passport ; you shall have no trouble. 
And you need not go to a bank, there’s French 
money here ; and you’ll keep it, and spend it for 
me till I see you ; and you must go to-day. ” 

“ And, of course, I know it is nothing wrong., 
my dear Cleve ; but we are told to avoid even 
the appearance of evil. And in any case, I 
should not, of course, for the world, offend your 
uncle — Lord Verney, I may call him now — the 
head of the family, and my very kind patron ; for 
I trust I never forget a kindness ; and if it should 
turn out to be any thing which by any chance he 
might misinterpret, I may reckon upon your 
religious silence, my dear Cleve, as respects my 
name ?” 


“ Silence ! of course — I’d die before I should 
tell, under any pressure. I think you know I 
can keep a secret, and my own especially. And 
never trust my honor more if your name is ever 
breathed in connection with any little service you 
may render me.” 

He pressed the Rev. Isaac Dixie’s hand very 
earnestly as he spoke. 

“And now, will you kindly take charge of 
this for me, and do as I said ?” continued Cleve, 
placing the French money in Dixie’s not unwill- 
ing hand. “ And on this paper I have made a 
note of the best way — all about the boat and the 
rest ; and God bless you, my dear Dixie, good- 
bye.” 

“And God bless you, my dear Cleve,” recip- 
rocated the clergyman, and they shook hands 
again, and the clergyman smiled blandly and ten- 
derly ; and as he closed the door, and crossed 
the hall, grew very thoughtful, and looked as if 
he were getting into a possible mess. 

Cleve, too, was very pale as he stood by the 
window, looking into the sooty garden at the 
back of Verney House. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

OVER THE HERRING-POND. 

Like the vision that had visited Cleve as he 
sat in the breakfast-room of Verney House, 
awaiting the Rev. Isaac Dixie, the old Chateau 
de Cresseron shared that night in the soft yet 
brilliant moonlight. That clergyman — vulgar, 

I am afraid ; worldly, perhaps ; certainly not 
beautiful — had undertaken this foreign mission 
into the land of romance ; and among its shadows 
and enchanted lights, and heroic phantoms, look- 
ed, I am afraid, incongruous, as the long-eared, 
shaggy head of Bottom in the fairy-haunted wood 
near Athens. 

In the ancient town of Caen, in the Silver 
Lion, the Rev. Isaac Dixie that evening made 
himself partially understood, and altogether 
comfortable. He had an excellent dinner, and 
partook, moderately of course, of the very best 
vintage in the crypt of that venerable inn. Why 
should he not ? Was he not making harmless 
holiday, and guilty of no extravagance ; for had 
not Mr. Cleve Verney buckled a long purse to 
his girdle, and told him to dip his fingers in it 
as often and as deep as he pleased ? And if he 
undertook the task — trod out Cleve Verney ’s 
corn, surely it was no business of his to call 
for a muzzle, and deny himself his heart’s con- 
tent. 

In that exquisite moonlight, having had his 
cup of coffee, the Rev. Isaac Dixie made a loiter- 
ing promenade : every thing was bewitching — a 
little wonderful, he fancied — a little strange — 
from his shadow, that looked so sharp on the/ 
white road, to the gothic fronts and gables of old 
carved houses, emitting ruddy glimmerings from 
diamond casements high in air, and half melting 


92 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


in tlio deep liquid sky, gleaming with stars over 
his head. 

All was perfectly French in language and 
costume : not a note of the familiar English 
accent mingled in the foreign hum of life. He 
was quite at his ease. To all censorious 
eyes he walked invisible ; and, shall I tell it ? 
Mdiy not? For in truth, if his bishop, who 
abhors that narcotic, and who, I am sure, never 
reads novels, and therefore can not read it here, 
learns nothing of it, the telling can hurt nobody. 
He smoked three great cheroots, mild and fra- 
grant, that evening, in the ancient streets of 
Caen, and returned to his inn, odorous of that 
perfume. 

It would have been altogether a delicious 
excursion, had there not been a suspense and an 
anxiety to trouble the divine. The Rev. Isaac 
Dixie regretted now that he had not asked Cleve 
to define his object. He suspected, but did not 
know its nature. He had no idea how obstinately 
and amazingly the problem would recur to his 
mind, and how serious would grow his qualms 
as the hour of revelation drew near. 

The same moon is shining over the ancient 
streets of Caen, and over smoke-canopied Ver- 
ney House, and over the quaint and lonely 
Chateau de Cresseron. In a tapestried room in 
this old French house candles were burning, the 
window open, and Margaret Fanshawe sitting at 
it, and looking out on the moonlit woods and 
waters, and breathing the still air, that was 
this night soft as summer, in the raptures of 
a strange dream : a dream — no more ; the un- 
certainty is over, and all her griefs. No longer 
is she one of that forlorn race that hath but a 
short time to live, and is full of misery. She is 
not born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward, 
but translated. Alas ! the angelic voice has not 
yet proclaimed ‘‘ that God shall wipe away all 
tears from their eyes ; and there shall be no 
more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither 
shall there be any more pain ; for the former 
things are passed away.” These words are for 
the glorified, who have passed the gates of death. 

In this bliss, as in all that pertains to love, 
reason has small share. The heart rejoices as 
the birds sing. A great suspense — the greatest 
care that visits the young heart — has ended in 
a blessed certainty, and in so far the state re- 
sembles heaven ; but, as in all mortal happiness, 
there mingles in this also a sadness like distant 
music. 

Old Sir Booth Fanshawe is away on one of 
his mysterious journeys, and can not return for 
three or four days, at soonest. I do not know 
whether things are beginning to look brighter 
with Sir Booth, or whether his affairs are being 
managed into utter ruin. Meanwhile, the evil 
spirit has departed from the house, and the spirit 
of music has come, music with yet a cadence of 
sadness in it 

This fair, quaint landscape, and beautiful 
Moonlight ! Who ever looks on such a scene 
tli^t does not feel a melancholy mingling in bis 
delight ? 


“ The moon shines bright: — In such a night as this, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 

And they did make no noise ; in such a night, 

Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 

And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents. 

Where Cresid lay that night. In such a niglit 
Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand. 

Upon the wild sea-banks, and Avaved her love 
To come again to Carthage.” 

Thus, in the vision of the Seer who lies in 
Stratford-on-Avon, moonlight and love and 
melancholy are related ; and so it is, and will be, 
to the end of time, till mortal love is no more, 
and sadness ends, and the moon is changed to 
blood, and all things are made new. 

And now over the moonlit water, through the 
boughs of the old trees, the still night air is 
thrilled with a sweet contralto — a homely song 
— the echo of childish days and the nursery. 
Poor Milly ! her maid, who died so early, whose 
lover was a young sailor, far away, used to sing 
it for her in the summer evenings, when they sat 
down under the hawthorns, on Winnockhough, 
looking toward the sea, though the sea was many 
a mile away : 

As Eve went forth from Paradise, 

She, weeping, bore aAvay 

One flower, that, reared in tears and sighs. 

Is growing to this day. 

Where’er the children of the fall 
Are toiling to this hour. 

It blooms for each, it blooms for all. 

And Love we call this flower. 

Eed roses of the by-gone year 
Are mingled with the mould, 

And other roses will appear 
Where they grew pale and old. 

But where it grew, no other grows, 

No bloom restores the sear ; 

So this resembles not the rose. 

And knows no other year. 

So, welcome, when thy bloom is red. 

The glory of thy light ; 

And welcome when thy bloom is shed. 

The long sleep of my night.” 

And now the song is ended, and, listening, Na- 
ture seems to sigh ; and looking toward the old 
chateau, the front next you is in shadow, the 
window is open, and within you see two ladies. 
The elder is standing by the girl, who sits still 
at the open window, looking up into the face of 
her old friend — the old friend who has known, 
in the early days of romance, what love is, for 
whom now the bloom is shed, and mingling with 
the mould, but who remembers sadly the blush 
and glory of its light that died five-and-thirty 
years ago upon Canadian snows. 

Gently the old lady takes her hand, and sits 
beside her girlish kinswoman, and lays her 
other hand over that, and smiles with a strange 
look of affection, and admiration, and immeasur- 
able compassion that somehow seems to trans- 
late her, it is so sad and angelic. I can not 
hear what she is saying, but the young lady ' 
looks up, and kisses her thin cheek, and lays 
her head upon her old shoulder. 

Behind, high over the steep roofs and pinna- 
cles, and those glimmering weather-vanes, that 
seem sometimes to melt quite away, hangs the 
moon, unclouded — meet emblem of a pure love 
— no longer crossed by the sorrows of true love’s 
course — Dian the Chaste, with her sad, pure. 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


93 


and beautifully misleading light — alas ! the em- 
blem, also, of mutation. 

In a few concise and somewhat dry sentences, 
as old prison stones bear the records which thin 
hands, long since turned to dust, have carved, 
the world’s corridors and corners bear the trac- 
ings of others that were busy two thousand years 
ago ; and the inscriptions that tell the trite 
story of human fears and sadness, cut sharp 
and deep in the rock, tell simply and briefly 
how Death was the King of Terrors, and the 
shortness of Life the bitter wonder, and black 
Care the companion of the wayfarers who 
marched by the same route to the same goal, so 
long ago. These gigantic griefs and horrors 
are all in a nutshell. A few words tell them. 
Their terror is in their truth. There is no use 
in expanding them ; they are sublimely simple. 
Among the shadowy men and women that peo- 
ple these pages, I see them everywhere — plots 
too big and complicated to be got, by any com- 
pression, within the few pages and narrow cov- 
ers of the book of their lives — Care, in her 
old black weeds, and Death, with stealthy foot 
and blow like thunder. 

Twelve months had come and gone forever 
since the Eeverend Isaac Dixie made that little 
trip to Caen, every month bringing his portion 
of blossom, fruit, or blight to every mortal. 
All had gone well and gloriously in this Verney 
Peerage matter. 

The death of the late Honorable Arthur Ver- 
ney was proved ; and the Honorable Kiffyn 
Eulke Verney, as next heir, having complied 
with the proper forms, duly succeeded to the 
ancient peerage of the Verneys. So the dream 
was accomplished more splendidly, perhaps, 
than if the prize had come ealier, for the estates 
were in such condition as they had never attain- 
ed to since the great rebellion ; and if Viscount 
Verney was not among the most potent of his 
peers, the fault was not in the peerage and its 
belongings. 

I don’t know that Lord Verney was on the 
whole a happier man than the Honorable Kiifyn 
had been. He had become somewhat more ex- 
acting ; his pride pronounced itself more impla- 
cably ; men felt it more, because he was really 
more formidable. Whatever the Viscount in 
the box might be, the drag he drove was heavy, 
and men more alert in getting out of his way 
than they would, perhaps, had he been a better 
whip. 

He had at length his heart’s desire ; but still 
there was something wanting. He was not 
quite where he ought to be. With his boroughs, 
and his command of one county, and potent in- 
fluence in another, he ought to have been decid- 
edly a greater man. He could not complain 
of being slighted. The minister saw him 
when he chose ; he was listened to, and in all 
respects courteously endured. But there was 
something unsatisfactory. He was not telling^ 
as he had expected. Perhaps he had no very 
clear conceptions to impress. He had misgiv- 
ings, too, that secretly depressed and irritated 


him. He saw Twyndle’s eye wander wildly, 
and caught him yawning stealthily into his hand, 
while he was giving him his view of the afiliir 
of “the Matilda Briggs,” and the right of 
search. He had seen Eoljambe, of the Treasury, 
suddenly laugh at something he thought was 
particularly wise, while unfolding to that gen- 
tleman, in the drawing-room, after dinner, his 
ideas about local loans, in aid of agriculture. 
Eoljambe did not laugh outright. It was only 
a tremulous qualm of a second, and he was sol- 
emn again, and rather abashed. Lord Verney 
paused, and looked for a second, with stern in- 
quiry in his face, and then proceeded politely. 
But Lord Verney never thought or spoke well 
of Eoljambe again, and often reviewed what he 
had said, in secret, to try to make out where 
the absurdity la}^ and was shy of ventilating that 
particular plan again, and sometimes suspected 
that it was the boroughs and the county, and not 
Kiifyn Lord Verney, that were listened to. 

As the organ o^ self-esteem is the region of 
our chief consolations and irritations (audits con- 
dition regulates temper), this undivulged mor- 
tification, you may be sure, did not make Lord 
Verney, into whose ruminations w'as ever trick- 
ling, through a secret duct, this fine stream of 
distilled gall, brighter in spirits, or happier in 
temper. 

Oh ! vanity of human wdshes ! Not that the 
things we wish for are not in themselves pleas- 
ant, but that we forget that, as in nature every 
substance has its peculiar animacule and infest- 
ings, so every blessing has, too minute to be 
seen at a distance, but quite inseparable, its par- 
asite troubles. 

Cleve Verney, too, who stood so near the 
throne, was he happy? The shadow of care 
was cast upon him. He had grown an anxious 
man, “Verney’s looking awfully thin, don’t 
you think, and seedy, and he’s always writing 
long letters, and rather cross?” was the crlM- 
cism of one of his club friends. “ Been going a 
little too fast, I dare say.” 

Honest Tom Sedley thought it was this pend- 
ing peerage business, and the suspense, and re- 
ported to his friend the confident talk of the 
town on the subject. But when the question 
was settled, with a brilliant facility, his good 
humor did not recover. There was still the 
same cloud over his friend, and Tom began to 
fear that Cleve had got into some very bad 
scrape, probably with the Hebrew community. 


CHAPTER XL. 

3IR. CLEVE VERNEY PAYS A VISIT TO ROSEMARY 
COURT. 

That evoked spirit, Dingwell, was now 
functus officio, and might be dismissed. He 
was as much afraid of the light of London — 
even the gas-light — as a man of his audacity 
could be of any thing. Still he lingered there. 

Mr. Larkin had repeatedly congratulated the 
Verney peer, and his young friend and patron, 


94 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


Cleve, upon his own masterly management, and 
the happy result of the case, as he called it. 
And although, with scriptural warning before 
him, he would be the last man in the world to 
say, “ Is not this great Babylon that I have build- 
ed ?” yet he did wish Lord Viscount Yerney, and 
Cleve V erney, M. P., distinctly to understand that 
/ze, Mr. Larkin, had been the making of them. 
There were some things — very many things, in 
fact, all desirable — which those distinguished 
persons could effect for the good attorney of 
Gylingden, and that excellent person in conse- 
quence presented himself diligently atVerney 
House. 

On the morning I now speak of, he was in- 
troduced to the library, where he found the 
peer and his nephew. 

“I ventured, my lord, to call — how do you 
do Mr. Verney ? — to invite your lordship’s at- 
tention to the position of Mr. Dingwell, who is 
compelled by lack of funds to prolong his stay 
in London. He is, I may say, most anxious to 
take his departure, quietly and expeditiously, for 
Constantinople, where, I venture to think, it is 
expedient for all parties that his residence 
should be fixed, rather than in London, where 
he is in hourly danger of detection and arrest, 
the consequence of which, my lord — it will prob- 
ably have struck your lordship’s rapid compre- 
hension already — would be, I venture to think, 
a very painful investigation of his past life, and 
a concomitant discrediting of* his character, 
which although, as your lordship would point 
out to me, it can not disturb that which is al- 
ready settled, would yet produce an unpleasant 
effect out-of-doors, which, it is to be feared, he 
w'ould take care to aggravate by all means in 
his power, were he to refer his detention here, 
and consequent arrest, to any fancied economy 
on your lordship’s part.” 

“I don’t quite follow you about it, Mr. Lar- 
kin,” said Lord Yerney, who generally looked 
a little stern when he was puzzled. ‘‘ I don’t 
quite apprehend the drift — be good enough to 
sit down — about it — of your remarks, as they 
bear upon Mr. Dingwell’s wishes, and my con- 
duct. Do yoM, Cleve ?” 

“I conjecture that Dingwell wants more 
money, and can’t be got out of London without 
it,” said Cleve. 

‘ ‘ Eh ? Well that did occur to me — of course^ 
that’s plain enough — about it — and what a man 
that must be ! — and — God bless me ! about it 
— all the money he has got from me ! It’s in- 
credible, Mr. — a — Larkin^ three hundred pounds, 
you know, and he wanted Jive, and that absurdly 
enormous weekly payment besides !” 

“Your lordship has exactly, as usual, touch- 
ed the point, and anticipated, with your wonted 
accuracy, the line on the other side, and indeed 
I may also say, all that may be urged by way 
of argument, pj'o and con. It is a wonderful 
faculty!” added Mr. Larkin, looking down with 
a contemplative smile, and a little wondering 
shake of the head. 

‘ ‘ Ha, ha ! Something of the same sort has 


been remarked in our family about it,” said the 
Viscount, much pleased. “ It facilitates busi- 
ness — rather, I should hope — about it.” 

The attorney shook his head, reflectively, 
raising his hands, and said, “ No one but a pro- 
fessional man can have an idea 

“And what do you suggest?” asked Cleve, 
who was perhaps a little tired of the attorney’s 
compliments. 

‘ ‘ Yes, what do you suggest, Mr. — Mr. Larkin ? 
Your suggestion I should be prepared to con- 
sider. Any thing, Mr. Larkin, suggested by you 
shall hQ considered,” said Lord Yerney, grand- 
ly, leaning back in his chair, and folding his 
hands. 

“I am much — very much — flattered by your 
lordship’s confidence. The former money, I 
have reason to think, my lord, went to satisfy 
an old debt, and I have reason to know that his 
den has been discovered by another creditor, from 
whom, even were funds at his disposal to leave 
England to-night, escape would be difficult, if 
not impossible.” 

“ How much money does he want?” asked 
Mr. Cleve Yerney. 

“ A moment, a moment, please. I was going 
to say,” said Lord Yerney, “ if he wants money 
— about it — it would be desirable to state the 
amount.” 

Mr. Larkin, thus called on, cleared his voice, 
and his dove-like eyes contracted, and assumed 
their rat-like look, and he said, watching Lord 
Yerney’ s face — 

“I am afraid, my lord, that less than three 
hundred — ” 

Lord Yerney contracted his brows, and nod- 
ded, after a moment. 

“ Three hundred pounds. Less, I say, my 
lord, will not satisfy the creditor, and there will 
remain something still in order to bring him 
back, and to keep him quiet there for a time ; 
and I think, my lord, if you will go the length 
of Jive hundred — ” 

“ ’Gad, it’s growing quite serious, Mr. — Mr. 
Sir, I confess I don’t half understand thisjoer- 
son, Mr. Dong-Ding — whatever it is — it’s going 
rather too fast about it. I — I — and that’s my 
clear opinion — ” and Lord Yerney gazed and 
blinked sternly at the attorney, and patted his 
fragrant pocket handkerchief several times to 
his mouth — “ very unreasonable and monstrous, 
and considering all I’ve done, very ungratefuV 

“ Quite so, my lord ; monstrously ungrateful. 

I can’t describe to your lordship the trouble I 
have had with that extraordinary and, I fear I 
must add, fiendish person. I allude, of course, 
my lord, in my privileged character as having 
the honor of confidential relations with your 
lordship, to that unfortunate man, Dingwell. 

I assure you on one occasion he seized a poker 
in his lodgings, and threatened to dash my 
brains out.” 

“Very good, sir,” said Lord Yerney, whose 
mind was busy upon quite another point ; “ and 
suppose I do, what do we gain, I ask, by assist- 
ing him?” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


95 


“ Simply, my lord, he is so incredibly reck- 
less, and, as I have said, fiendish, that if he were 
disappointed, I do think he will stick at noth- 
ing, even to the length of swearing that his evi- 
dence for your lordship was perjured, for the 
purpose of being revenged, and your generosity 
to him pending the inquiry, or rather the prep- 
aration of proofs, would give a color unfortu- 
nately even to that monstrous allegation. Your 
lordship can have no idea — the elevation of 
your own mind prevents it — of the desperate 
character with whom we have had to deal.” 

‘‘ Upon my life, sir, a pleasant position you 
seem to have brought me into,” said Lord Ver- 
ney, flushing a good deal. 

“My lord, it was inevitable,” said Mr. Lar- 
kin, sadly. 

“ I don’t think he could have helped it, 
really,” said Cleve Verney. 

“ And who says he could ?” asked Lord Ver- 
ney, tartly. ‘ ‘ I’ve all along said it could not well 
be helped, and that’s the reason I did it, don’t 
you see ? but I may be allowed to say, I sup- 
pose, that the position is a most untoward one ; 
and so it is, egad !” and Lord Verney got up in 
his fidget, and walked over to the window, and 
to the chimney-piece, and to the table, and fid- 
dled with a great many things. 

“I remember my late brother, Shadwell 
Verney — he’s dead, poor Shadwell — had a 
world of trouble with a fellow — about it — who 
used to extort money from him — something, I 
suppose, like this Mr. Ringwood — or I mean — 
you know his name — till he called in the po- 
lice, and put an end to it.” 

“ Quite true, my lord, quite true: but don’t 
you think, my lord, such a line with Mr. Ding- 
well might lead to a fracays, and the possible 
unpleasantness to which I venture to allude? 
You have seen him, Mr. Verney ?” 

“Yes ; he’s a beast, he really is ; a little bit 
mad, I almost think.” 

“ A little bit mad, precisely so ; it really is, 
my lord, most melancholy. And I am so clearly 
of opinion that if we quarrel definitively with Mr. 
Dingwell, we may find ourselves in an extreme- 
ly difficult position, that were the case my own, 
I should have no hesitation in satisfying Mr. 
Dingwell, even at a sacrifice, rather than incur 
the annoyance I anticipate. If you allow me, 
my lord, to conduct the matter with Mr. Ding- 
well, I think I shall succeed in getting him 
away quietly.” 

“It seems to me a very serious sum, Mr. 
Larkin,” said Lord Verney. 

‘ ‘ Precisely so, my lord ; serious — very seri- 
ous ; but your lordship made a remark once in 
my hearing which impressed me powerfully ; 
it was to the effect that where an object is to be 
accomplished, it is better to expend a little too 
much power, than any thing too little.” I think 
that Mr. Larkin invented this remark of Lord 
Verney’s, which, however, his lordship was 
pleased to recognize, notwithstanding. 

So the attorney took his departure, to call 
again next day. 


“ Clever man that Mr. — Mr. Larkin — vastly 
clever,” said Lord Verney. “I rather think 
there’s a great deal in what he says — it’s very 
, disgusting — about it ; but one must consider, 
you know — there’s no harm in considering — 
and — and that Mr. Ding — Dong — Dingleton, 
isn’t it ? — about it — a most offensive person. 
I must consider. I shall think it over, and 
give him my ideas to-morrow.” 

Cleve did not like an expression which struck 
him in the attorney’s face that day, and he pro- 
posed next day to write to Mr. Dingwell, and 
actually did so, requesting that he would be so 
good as to call at Verney House. 

Mr. Dingwell did not come, but a note came 
by post, saying that the writer, Mr. Dingwell, 
was not well enough to venture a call. 

What I term Mr. Larkin’s rat-like eyes, and 
a certain dark and even wicked look that cross- 
es the attorney’s face, when they appear, had 
left a profound sense of uncertainty in Cleve’s 
mind respecting that gentleman’s character 
and plans. It was simply a conviction that the 
attorney meditated something odd about Mr. 
Dingwell, and that no good man could look as 
he had looked. 

There was no use in opening his suspicion, 
grounded on so slight a thing as a look, to his 
uncle, who though often timid and hesitating, 
and in secret helpless, and at his wits’ end for 
aid in arriving at a decision, was yet, in matters 
where a vanity was concerned, or a strong prej- 
udice or caprice involved, often incredibly ob- 
stinate. 

Mr. Larkin’s look teased Cleve. Larkin 
might grow into an influence very important to 
that young gentleman, and was not lightly 
to be quarreled with. He would not quarrel 
with him ; but he would see Dingwell, if indeed 
that person were still in London ; a fact about 
which he had begun to have some odd misgivings. 
The note was written in a straight, cramp hand, 
and Mr. Larkin’s face was in the background 
always. He knew Mr. Dingwell’ s address ; an 
answer, real or forged, had reached him from it. 
So, full of dark dreams and conjectures, he got 
into a cab, and drove to the entrance of Rose- 
mary Court, and knocked at Miss Sarah Rumble’s 
door. 

That good lady, from the shadow, looked sus- 
piciously on him. 

“Is Mr. Dingwell at home?” 

“Mr. Dingwell, sir ?” she repeated. 

“ Yes. Is he at home?” 

“ Mr. Dingwell, sir? No, sir.” 

“Does not Mr. Dingwell live here?” 

“ There icas a gentleman, please, sir, with a 
name like that. Go hack, child,” she said sharp- 
ly to Lucy Maria, who was peeping in the back- 
ground, and who might not be edified, perhaps, 
by the dialogue. “Beg parding, sir,” she con- 
tinued, as the child disappeared ; “ they are so 
tiresome ! There was an old gentleman lodging 
here, sir, please, which his name was like that, 
I do remember.” 

Cleve Verney did not know what to think. 


96 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


Is there any one in the house who knows 
Mr. Dingwell ? I Ve come to be of use to him ; 
perhaps he could see me. Will you say Mr. 
Verney?” 

^‘Mr. — w/iatj sir, please?” 

‘‘ Yerney — here’s my card ; perhaj^s it is bet- 
ter.” 

As the conversation continued, Miss Rumble 
had gradually come more and more forward, 
closing the door more and more as she did so, so 
that she now confronted Cleve upon the step, 
and could have shut the door at her back, had 
he made any attempt to get in ; and she called 
over her shoulder to Lucy Maria, and whispered 
something, and gave her, I suppose, the card ; 
and in a minute more Miss Rumble opened the 
door wide, and showed ‘‘the gentleman” up 
stairs, and told him on the lobby she hoped he 
would not be offended, but that she had such 
positive orders as to leave her no choice ; and 
that in fact Mr. Dingwell was in the drawing- 
room, and would be happy to see him, and al- 
most at the same moment she threw open the door 
and introduced him, with a little courtesy, and — 

“This way, please sir; here’s the gentleman, 
please sir.” 

There he did find Mr. Dingwell, smoking a 
cigar, in his fez, slippers and pea-green silk 
dressing-gown, with a cup of black coffee on the 
little table beside him, his Times and a few 
magazines there also. He looked in vulgar par- 
lance “ seedy,” like an old fellow who had been 
raking the night before, and was wofully tired, 
and in no very genial temper. 

“ Will you excuse an old fellow, Mr. Yerney, 
and take a chair for yourself? I’m not very 
well to-day. I suppose, from your note, you 
thought I had quitted London. It was not to 
be expected so old a plant should take root : but 
it’s sometimes not worth moving ’em again, and 
they remain where they are, to wither — ha, ha, 
ha!” 

“I should be sorry it was for any such pur- 
pose ; but I am happy to find you still here, for 
I -was really anxious to call and thank you.” 

^'Anxious — to thank me I Are you really 
serious^ Mr. Yerney?” said Dingwell, lowering 
his cigar again, and looking with a stern smile 
in his visitor’s face. 

“ Yes, sir ; I did wish to call and thank you,” 
said Cleve, determined not to grow angry ; “and 
I am here to say that we are very much obliged.” 

“ Yes ; my uncle and I.” 

“ Oh I yes ; well, it is something. I hope the 
coronet becomes him, and his robes. I venture 
to say he has got up the masquerading properties 
already ; it’s a pity there isn’t a coronation or 
something at hand ; and I suppose he’ll put up 
a monument to my dear friend Arthur — a mangy 
old dog he was, you’ll allow me to say, though 
he was my friend, and veiy kind to me ; and I, 
the most grateful fellow he ever met ; I’A^e been 
more grieved about him than any other person 
I can remember, upon my soul and honor- 
and a devilish dirty dog ho was.” 


This last reflection was delivered in a melan- 
choly aside, after the manner of a soliloquy, and 
Cleve did not exactly know how to take tliis old 
fellow’s impertinence. 

“ Arthur Yerney — poor fellow ! your uncle. 
He had a great deal of the pride of his family, 
you know, along with utter degradation. Filthy 
dog ! —pah ! ” And Mr. Dingwell lifted botli his 
hands, and actually used that unpleasant instru- 
ment called a “spittoon,” which is seen in 
taverns, to give expression, it seemed, to his 
disgust. 

“ But he had his pride, dear Arthur; yes, he 
was proud, and wished for a tombstone. Wlien 
he was dying he said, ‘ I sliould like a monument 
— not of course in a cathedral, for I have been 
living so darkly, and a good deal talked about ; 
but there’s an old church or abbey near Mal- 
ory (that I’m sure was the name of the place) 
where our family has been accustomed to bury 
its quiet respectabilities and its mauvais svjets ; 
and I think they might give me a pretty little 
monument there, quite quietly.’ I think you’ll 
do it, for you’re a grateful person, and like 
thanking people ; and he certainly did a great 
deal for his family by going out of it, and the 
little vanity of a monument would not cost much, 
and, as he said himself, no one would ever see 
it ; and I promised, if I ever had an opportunity, 
to mention the subject to }*our uncle. ” 

Cleve bowed. 

“ ‘ And, ’said he, ‘ there will be a little conflict 
of feeling. I am sure they’d like the monument, 
but they would not make an ostentation of me. 
But remind them of my Aunt Deborah. Poor 
old girl! she ran away with a fiddler.’ Egad, 
sir, these were his very words, and I’ve found, 
on inquiring here, they were quite true. She ran 
away with a fiddler — egad ! and I don’t know 
how many little fiddlers she had ; and, by Jove, 
he said if I came back I should recognize a pos- 
sible cousin in every street-fiddler I met with, 
for music is a talent that runs in families. And 
so, when Atropos cut his fiddle-string, and he 
died, she took, ho said, to selling mutton-pics, for 
her maintenance, in Chester, and being properly 
proud as a Yerney, though as a fiddler’s widow 
necessitous, he said she used to cry, behind her 
little table, ‘Hot mutton-pies!’ and then, sotto 
voce, ‘I hope nobody hears me;’ and you may 
rely upon that family anecdote, fori had it from 
the lips of that notorious member of your family, 
your uncle Arthur, and he hoped that they would 
comply with the tradition, and reconcile the 
Yerney pride with Yerney exigencies, and con- 
cede him the secret celebration of a monument.” 

“If you are serious — ?” 

“Serious about a monument, sir! who the 
devil could be lively on such a subject ?” and 
Mr. Dingwell looked unaccountably angry, and 
ground his teeth, and grew white. “ A monu- 
ment, cheap and nasty, I dare say ; it isn’t much 
for a poor devil from whom you’ve got every 
thing. I suppose you’ll speak to your uncle, 
sir ?” 

“ I’ll speak to him, sir.” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


97 


“Yes, do, pray, and prevail. I’m not very 
strong, sir, and there’s something that remains 
for you and me to do, sir.” 

“ What is that?” 

“ To rot undhr ground, sir ; and as I shall go 
first, it would be pleasant to me to be able to 
present your affectionate regards to your uncle, 
when I meet him, and tell him that you had 
complied with his little fancy about the monu- 
ment, as he seemed to make a point that his 
name should not be blotted totally from the rec- 
ords of his fiimily.” 

Cleve was rather confirmed in his suspicions 
about the sanity of this odious old man — as well 
he might — and, at all events, was resolved to 
endure him without a row. 

“I shall certainly remember, and mention all 
you have said, sir,” said Cleve. 

“ Yes,” said the old man, in a grim medita- 
tion, looking down, and he chucked away the 
stump of his cigar. “ It’s a devilish hard case, 
Kismet!” he muttered. 

“ I suppose you find our London climate very 
different from that you have grown accustomed 
to?” said Cleve, approaching the point on which 
he desired some light. 

“I lived in London for along time, sir. 
I was — as perhaps you know — junior partner 
in the great Greek house of Prinkipi & Ding- 
well — d — n Prinkipi ! say I. lie ran us into 
trouble sir ; then came a smash, sir, and Prink- 
ipi lavented, making a scape-goat of me, the 
most villified and persecuted Greek merchant 
that ever came on ’Change ! And, egad ! if 
they could catch me, even now, I believe they’d 
bury me in a dungeon for the rest of my days, 
which, in that case, would not be many. I’m 
here, therefore, I may say, at the risk of my life.” 

“A very anxious situation, indeed, Mr. Ding- 
well ; and I conclude you intend but a short 
stay here?” 

“ Quite the contrary, sir. I mean to stay 
as long as I please, and that may be as long as 
I live.” 

“Oh! I had thought from something that 
Mr. Larkin said,” began Cleve Verney. 

“Larkin! He’s a religious man, and does 
not put his candle under a bushel. He’s very 
particular to say his prayers ; and provided he 
says them, he takes leave to say what he likes 
beside.” 

Mr. Dingwell was shooting his arrows as 
freely as Cupid does ; but Cleve did not take 
this satire for more than its worth. 

“He may think it natural I should wish to 
be gone, and so I do,” continued the old man, 
setting down his coffee-cup, “if I could get 
away without the trouble of going, or was sure 
of a tolerably comfortable berth, at my journey’s 
end ; but I am old, and traveling shakes me to 
pieces, and I have enemies elsewhere, as well 
as here ; and the newspapers have been print- 
ing sketches of my life and adventures, and 
poking up attention about mo, and awakening the 
slumbering recollection of persons by whom I 
had been, in effect, forgotten everywhere. No 
G 


rest for the wicked, sir. I’m pursued ; and, in 
fact, what little peace I might have enjoyed in 
this, the closing period of my life, has been irre- 
parably wrecked by my visit and public appear- 
ance here, to place your uncle, and by conse- 
quence you, in the position now secured to you. 
What do you think of me?” 

“ I think, sir, you have done us a great serv- 
ice ; and I know we are very much obliged,” 
said Cleve, with his most engaging smile. 

“And do you know what I think of myself? 
I think I’m a d — d fool, unless I look for some 
advantage to myself.” 

“ Don’t you think, sir, you have found it, on 
the whole, advantageous, your coming here ?” 
insinuated Cleve. 

“ Barren, sir, as a voyage on the Dead Sea. 
The test is this — what have I by it ? not five 
pounds, sir, in the world. Now, I’ve opened 
my mind a little to you upon this subject, and 
I’m of the same mind still ; and if I’ve opened 
Aladdin’s garden to you, with its fruitage of 
emeralds, rubies, and so forth, I expect to fill 
my snuff-box with the filings and chippings of 
your gigantic jewelry.” 

Cleve half repented his visit, now that the 
presence of the insatiable Mr. Dingwell, and his 
evident appetite for more money, had justified 
the representations of the suspected attorney. 

“ I shall speak to Mr. Larkin on the subject,” 
said Cleve Verney. 

“ D — n Larkin, sir ! speak to me.” 

“But, Mr. Dingwell, I have really, as I told 
you before, no authority to speak ; and no one 
has the least power in the matter but my 
uncle.” 

“And what the devil did you come here for ?” 
demanded Mr. Dingwell, suddenly blazing up 
into one of his unaccountable furies ; “I sup- 
pose you expected me to congratulate you on 
your success, and to ask leave to see your uncle 
in his coronet — ha, ha, ha! — or his cap and 
bells, or whatever he wears. By — , sir, I hope 
he holds his head high, and struts like a pea- 
cock, and has pleasant dreams ; time enough 
for nightmares, sir, hereafter, eh ? Uneasy rests 
the head that wears the crown ! Good-evening, 
sir ; I’ll talk to Mr. Larkin.” 

And with these words Mr. Dingwell got up, 
looking unaccountably angry, and made a half- 
sarcastic, half-furious bow, wherewith he dis- 
missed Mr. Cleve Verney, with more distinct 
convictions than ever that the old gentleman 
was an unmitigated beast. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

IN LORD VERNET’S LIBRARY. 

Who should light upon Cleve that evening 
as he walked homeward but our friend Tom Sed- 
ley, who was struck by the anxious pallor and 
melancholy of his face. 

Good-natured Sedley took his arm, and said 
he, as they walked on together — 

“ Why don’t you smile on your luck, Cleve ?” 


98 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


“How do you know what my luck is ?” 

“ All the world knows that pretty well.” 

“ All the world knows every thing but its 
own business.” 

“Well, people do say that your uncle has 
lately got the oldest peerage — one of them — in 
England, and an estate of thirty-three thousand 
a year, for one thing, and that you are heir- 
presumptive to those trifles.” 

‘ ‘ And that heirs-presumptive often get noth- 
ing but their heads in their hands.” 

“ No, you’ll not come Saint Denis nor any 
other martyr over us, my dear boy ; we know 
very well how you stand in that quarter.” 

“ It’s pleasant to have one’s domestic relations 
so happily arranged by such very competent 
persons. I’m much obliged to all the world for 
the parental interest it takes in my private con- 
cerns.” 

“And it also strikes some people that a 
perfectly safe seat in the House of Commons is 
not to be had for nothing by every fellow who 
wishes it.” 

“But suppose I don't wish it.” 

“ Oh ! we may suppose any thing.” 

Tom Sedley laughed as he said this, and 
Cleve looked at him sharply, but saw no uncom- 
fortable meaning in his face. 

“ There is no good in talking of what one has 
not tried,” said he. “ If you had to go down 
to that tiresome House of Commons every time 
it sits ; and had an uncle like mine to take you 
to task every time you missed a division — you’d 
soon be as tired of it as I am.” 

‘ ‘ I see, my dear fellow, you are bowed down 
under a load of good luck.” They were at the 
door of Tom Sedley’s lodgings by this time, and 
opening it, he continued, “ I’ve something in 
my room to show you ; just run up with me for 
a minute, and you’ll say I’m a conjuror.” 

Cleve, not to be got into good spirits that 
evening, followed him up stairs, thinking of 
something else. 

“I’ve got a key to your melancholy, Cleve,” 
said he, leading the way into his drawing-room. 

Look there," and he pointed to a clever copy 
in crayons of the famous Beatrice Cenci, which 
he had hung over his chimney-piece. 

Tom Sedley laughed, looking in Cleve’s eyes. 
A slight flush had suddenly tinged his visitor’s 
face, as he saw the portrait. But he did not 
seem to enjoy the joke ; on the contrary, lie looked 
a little embarrassed and angry. “ That’s Guido’s 
portrait — well, what about it ?” he asked, rather 
surlily. 

“ Yes, of course ; but who is it like ?” 

“ Very few, I dare say, for it is very pretty ; 
and except on canvas, there is hardly such a 
thing as a pretty girl to be seen. Is that all ? 
for the life of me I can’t see where the conjuring 
lies.” 

“Not in the picture, but iliQ likeness ; don’t 
you see it ?” 

“ No,” said Cleve ; “ I must go ; are you com- 
ing?” 

“ Not see it !” said Tom. “ Why, if it were 


painted for her, it could not be more like. Why, 
it’s the Flower of Cardyllian, the Star of Malory. 
It is your Miss Fanshawe — my Margaret — our 
Miss Margaret Fanshawe. I’m making the 
fairest division I can, you see ; and I would not 
be without it fqr all the world.” 

“She would be very much gratified if she 
heard it. It is so flattering to a young lady to 
have a fellow buy a colored lithograph, and call 
it by her name, and crack jokes and spout mock 
heroics over it. It is the modern w'ay of cele- 
brating a lady’s name. Don’t you seriously think, 
Tom Sedley, it would be better to smash it with 
a poker, and throw it into the fire, than go on 
taking such liberties with any young lady’s 
name ?” 

“Upon my honor, Cleve, you mistake me; 
you do me great injustice. You used to laugh 
at me, you know, when. I’m quite sure, thinking 
over it now, you w^ere awfully gone about her 
yourself. I never told any one but you why I 
bought that picture ; it isn’t a lithograph, but 
painted, or drawn, or whatever they call it, wdth 
chalks, and it cost five guineas ; and no one 
but you ever heard me mention Miss Fanshawe’s 
name, except the people at Cardyllian, and then 
only as I might mention any other, and always 
with respect.” 

“ What does it signify ?” interrupted Cleve, 
in the middle of a forced yawn. “I am tired 
to-day, and cross — don’t you see ; and man de- 
lights not me, nor w^oman neither. So if you’re 
coming, come, for I must go.” 

‘ ‘ And really, Cleve, the Cardyllian people do 
say (I’ve had letters) that you w^ere awfully in 
love with her yourself, and always haunting 
those woods of Malory wdiile she was there, and 
went aw^ay immediately she left, and have never 
been seen in Cardyllian since.” 

“ Those Cretans w'ere always liars, Tom 
Sedley. That comes direct from the Club. I 
can fancy old Shrapnell in the light of the bow- 
window, composing his farrago of dreams, and 
lies, and chuckling and cackling over it.” 

“Well, I don’t say that Shrapnell had any 
thing to do with it, but I did hear at first they 
thought you were gone about little Agnes Eth- 
erage.” 

. “ Oh ! they found that out — did they ?” said 
Cleve. “But you know those people — I mean 
the Cardyllian people — as well, or better than I, 
and really, as a kindness to me, and to save 
me the trouble of endless explanations to my 
uncle, I would be so much obliged if you w^onld 
not repeat their follies — unless, of course, you 
happen to believe them.” 

Cleve did not look more cheerful as he drove 
away in a cab which he took to get rid of his 
friend Tom Sedley. It was mortifying to find 
how vain were his clever stratagems, and how 
the rustic chapmen of that Welsh village and 
their wives had penetrated his diplomacy. He 
thought he had killed the rumors about Malory, 
and yet that grain of mustard seed had growm 
while his eye was off it, with a gigantic luxuri- 
ance, and now was largo enough to form a fea- 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


99 


ture in the landscape, and quite visible from the 
windows of Ware — if his uncle should happen 
to visit that mansion — overtopping the roofs 
and chimneys of Cardyllian. His uncle medi- 
tated an early visit to Cardyllian, and a short 
stay at Ware, before the painters and gilders 
got possession of the house ; a sort of ovation 
in demi-toilette, grand and friendly, and a fore- 
taste of the splendors that were coming. Cleve 
did hope that those beasts would be quiet while 
Lord Verney was (as he in his grand manner 
termed it) “ among them.” He knew the dan- 
ger of a vague suspicion seizing on his mind, 
how fast it clung, how it fermented like yeast, 
fantastic and obstinate as a foolish woman’s 
jealousy ; and as men sometimes will, he even 
magnified his danger. Altogether, Cleve was 
not causelessly anxious and alarmed. He had 
in the dark to navigate a channel whieh even 
in broad day-light tasked a good steersman. 

When Cleve reached Yerney House it was 
eight o’clock. His lordship had ordered his 
brougham at half-past, and was going down to 
the House ; he had something to say on Lord 
Frompington’sbill. It was not very new, nor very 
deep, nor very much ; but he had been close at 
it for the last three weeks. He had amused 
many gentlemen — and sometimes even ladies — 
at many dinner-parties with a very exact recital 
of his views. I can not say they were precisely 
IiiSf for they were culled, perhaps unconsciously, 
from a variety of magazine articles and pam- 
phlets, which happened to take Lord Verney ’s 
views of the question. 

It is not given to any mortal to have his 
heart’s desire in every thing. Lord Verney 
had a great deal of this world’s good things, 
wealth, family, rank. But he chose to aim at 
official station, and here his stars denied him. 

Some people thought him a goose, and some 
only a bore. He was, as we know, pompous, 
conceited, obstinate, also weak and dry. His 
grandfather had been a cabinet minister, respect- 
able and silent, and was not he wiser, brighter, 
and more learned than his grandfather ? ‘ ‘ Why 
on earth should not His influence com- 

manded two boroughs, and virtually two coun- 
ties. The minister, therefore, treated him with 
distinction ; and spoke of him confidentially as 
horribly foolish, impracticable, and at time pos- 
itively impertinent. 

Lord Verney was subject to small pets and 
huffs, and sometimes was affronted with the 
Premier for four or five weeks together, although 
the fact escaped his notice. And when the vis- 
count relented, he would make him a visit to 
quiet his mind, and show him that friendly re- 
lations were re-established ; and the minister 
would say, “ Here comes that d — d Verney ; I 
suppose I must give him half an hour!” And 
when the peer departed, thinking he had made 
the minister happy, the minister was seriouly 
debating whether Lord Verney’s boroughs were 
worth the price of Lord Verney’s society. 

His lordship was now in that sacred apart- 
ment, his library ; where not even Cleve had 'a 


right to disturb him uninvited. Preliminaries, 
however, were now arranged ; the servant an- 
nounced him, and Cleve was commanded to enter. 

“ I have just had a line to say I shall be in 
time at half past ten o’clock, about it. From- 
pington’s bill won’t be on till then ; and take 
that chair and sit down, about it, won’t you? 
I’ve a good many things on my mind ; people 
put things upon me. Sortie people think I have 
a turn for business, and they ask me to consid- 
er and direct matters about theirs^ and I do 
what I can. There was poor Wirfibledon, who 
died, about it, seven years ago. You remem- 
ber Wimbledon — or — I say — you either remem- 
ber him or you don’t remember him ; but in 
either case it’s of no importance. Let me see ; 
Lady Wimbledon — she’s connected with you, 
about it — ^your mother, remotely — remotely also 
with us, the Verneys. I’ve had a world of 
trouble about her settlements — I can’t describe 
— I can’t describe — I was not well advised, in 
fact, to accept the trust at all. Long ago, when 
poor Frompington — I mean Wimbledon, of 
course — have I been saying Wimbledon ?” 

Cleve at once satisfied him. 

“Yes, of course. When poor Wimbledon 
looked as healthy and as strong as I do at this 
moment, about it — a long time ago. Poor Wim- 
bledon ! — he fancied, I suppose, I had some lit- 
tle turn, about it, for business — sovie of my 
friends do — and I accepted the trust when poor 
Wimbledon looked as little likely to be hurried 
into eternity, about it, as I do. I had a regard 
for him, poor Wimbledon, and he had a respect 
for me, and thought I could be of use to him 
after he was dead, and I have endeavored, and 
people think I have. But Lady Wimbledon, 
the dowager, poor woman. She’s very long- 
winded, poor soul, and gives me an infinity of 
trouble. One can’t say to a lady, ‘ You are de- 
taining me ; you are beating about the bush ; 
you fail to come to the point.’ It would be 
taking a liberty, or something, about it. I had 
not seen Lady Wimbledon, simple ’oman, for 
seven years or more. It’s a very entangled bus- 
iness, and I confess it seems rather unfair I 
should have my time, already sufficiently occu- 
pied with other, and as I think more important 
affairs, so seriously interrupted and abridged. 
There’s going to be a bill filed — yes, and a great 
deal of annoyance. She has one unmarried 
daughter, Caroline, about it, who is not to have 
any power over her money till she is thirty- 
one. She’s not that now. It was hardly fair to 
me, putting it in trust so long. She is a very 
superior person — a young woman one does not 
meet with every day, about it ; and — and very 
apprehensive — a great deal of mind — quite un- 
usual. Do you know her ?” 

The viscount raised his eyes tow'ard the ceil- 
ing with a smile that was mysterious and 
pleased. 

Cleve did know that young lady of eight-and- 
twenty, and her dowager mamma, “simple 
’oman,” who had pursued him with extraordi- 
nary spirit and tenacity for several years, but 


100 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


that was past and over. Cleve experienced a 
thrill of pain at his heart. He suspected that 
the old torturing idea was again active in his 
uncle’s mind. 

“Yes, he did know them — ridiculous old 
woman ; and the girl — he believed she’d marry 
any one ; he fancied she would have done him 
that honor at one time, and he fancied that the 
trust, if it was to end when she was thirty-one, 
must have expired long ago.” 

‘ ‘ My dear Cleve, don’t you think that’s rath- 
er an odd Way of speaking of a young lady ? 
People used not in my time — that is, when I was 
a young man of two or three-and-twenty, about 
it — to talk so of young ladies. It was not con- 
sidered a thing that ought to be done. I — I 
never heard a word of the kind.” 

Lord VeiTiey’s chivalry had actually called a 
little pink flush to his old cheeks, and he looked 
very seriously still at the cornice, and tapped a 
little nervous tattoo with his pencil-case on the 
table as he did so. 

“I really did not mean — I only meant — in 
fact, uncle, I tell you every thing ; and poor Caro- 
line is so much elder than I, it always struck me 
as amusing.” 

“Their man of business in matters of law is 
Mr. Larkington, about it. Our man, you know 
— you know him ?” 

“ Oh, yes. They could not do better. Mr. 
Larkin — a very shrewd fellow. I went, by the 
bye, to see that old man, Dingwell.” 

“Ah, well, very good. We’!! talk of that by 
and by, if you please ; but it has been occurring 
to my mind, Cleve, that — that you should look 
about you. In fact, if you don’t like one young 
lady, you may like another. It strikes me I 
never saw a greater number of pretty young 
women, about it, than there are at present in town. 
I do assure you at that ball — where was it ? — the 
place I saw you, and sent you down to the 
division — don’t you remember ? — and next day, 
I told you, I think, they never said so much as 
‘^thank you’ for what I had done, though it was 
the saving of them, about it. I say I was quite 
struck ; the spectacle was quite charming, about 
it, from no other cause ; and you know there is 
Ethel — I always said Ethel — and there can be no 
objection there ; and I have distinct reasons for 
wishing you to be well connected, about it — in a 
political sense — and there is no harm in a little 
money ; and, in fact, I have made up my mind, 
my dear Cleve, it is indispensable, and you must 
marry. I’m quite clear upon the point.” 

“I can promise you, my dear uncle, that I 
shan’t marry without your approbation.” 

“Well, I rather took that for granted,” ob- 
served Lord Verney, with dry solemnity. 

“Of course. I only say it’s very difficult 
sometimes to see what’s wisest. I have you, I 
know, uncle, to direct me ; but you must allow 
I have also your example. You relied entirely 
upon yourself for your political position. You 
made it without the aid of any such step, and I 
should be only too proud to follow your example.” 

“A — yes — but the cases are different. 5 


there’s a difference, about it. As I said in the 
debate on the Jewish Disabilities, there are no 
two cases, about it, precisely parallel ; and I’ve 
given my serious consideration to the subject, 
and I am satisfied that for every reason you 
ought to choose a wife immediately ; there’s no 
reason against it, and you ought to choose a 
wife, about it, immediately ; and my mind* is 
made up quite decidedly, and I have spoken re- 
peatedly ; but now I tell you I recognize no 
reason for farther delay — no reason against the 
step, and every reason for it ; and in short, I 
shall have no choice but to treat any dilatory 
procedure in the matter as amounting to a distinct 
trifling with my known wishes, desire, and 
opinion.” 

And the Right Hon. Lord Viscount Verney 
smote his thin hand emphatically at these words, 
upon the table, as he used to do in his place in 
the House. 

Then followed an impressive silence, the peer 
holding his head high, and looking a little flush- 
ed ; and Cleve very pale, with the ghost of the 
smile he had worn a few minutes before. 

There are instruments that detect and measure 
with a beautiful accuracy the presence and force 
of invisible influences — heat, electricity, air, 
moisture. If among all these “ meters” — elec- 
tronometers, hygrometers, anemometers — odyno- 
meter ^ to detect the presence and measure the in- 
tensity of hidden were procurable, and ap- 
plied to the breast of that pale, smiling young 
man at that moment, I wonder to what degree 
in its scale its index would have pointed ! 

Cleve intended to make some slight and play- 
ful remark, he knew not what, but his voice 
failed him. 

He had been thinking of this possibility — of 
this hour for many a day, as some men will of 
the day of judgment, and putting it aside as a 
hateful thought, possibly never to be embodied in 
fact, and here it was come upon him, suddenly, 
inevitably, in all its terrors. 

“ Well, certainly, uncle — as you wish it. I 
must look about me — seriously. I know you 
wish me to be happy. I’m very grateful, you 
have always bestowed so much of your thought 
and care upon me — too good, a great deal.” 

So spoke the young man — white as that sheet 
of paper on which his uncle had been penciling 
two or three of what he called his thoughts — and 
almost as unconscious of the import of the words 
he repeated. 

“ I’m glad, my dear Cleve, you are sensible 
that I have been, I may say, kind ; and now let 
me say that I think Ethel has a great deal in her 
favor ; there are others, however, I am well 
aware, and there is time to look about, but I 
should wish something settled this season — in 
fact, before we break up, about it ; in short I 
have, as I said, made up my mind. I don’t act 
without reasons ; I never do, and mine are con- 
clusive ; and it was on this topic, my dear Cleve, 
I wished to see you. And now I think you may 
wish to have some dinner. I’m afraid I’ve de- 
tijined you here rather long.” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


101 


And Lord Verney rose, and moved toward a 
book-case with Hansard in it, to signify that the 
conference -svas ended, and that he desired to be 
alone in his study. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

AN OVATION. 

Cleve had no dinner ; he had supped full of 
horrors. He got on his coat and hat, and ap- 
peared nowhere that evening, but took an im- 
mense walk instead, in the hope I dare say of 
tiring out his agony — perhaps simply because 
quietude and the faculty of uninterrupted thought 
were unendurable. 

Next day hope began a little to revive. An 
inventive mind is inexhaustible ; and are not the 
resources of delay always considerable ? 

Who could have been acting upon his uncle’s 
mind in this matter ? The spring of Lord Ver- 
ney’s action was seldom quite within himself. 
All at once he recollected that he had come sud- 
denly upon what seemed an unusually secret con- 
ference between his uncle and Mr. Larkin about 
ten days since ; it was in the library. He was 
sure the conversation had some reference to him. 
His uncle looked both annoyed and embarrassed 
when he came into the room ; even the practiced 
countenance of Mr. Larkin betrayed some faint 
signs of confusion. 

Larkin he knew had been down in the neigh- 
borhood of Ware, and probably in Cardyllian. 
Had any thing reached him about the Malory 
romance ? Mr. Larkin was a man who would 
not stick at trifles in hunting up evidence, and 
all that concerned him would now interest Mr. 
Larkin, and Cleve had too high an opinion of 
that gentleman’s sagacity not to assume that if 
he had obtained the clew to his mystery he 
would make capital of the secret with Lord Yer- 
ney. Viscera magnorum domuum — nothing like 
secret relations — confidences — and what might 
not come of this ? Of course, the first result 
would be a peremptory order on which Lord 
Verney had spoken last night. The only safety 
for the young man, it will be concluded, is to 
marry him suitably forthwith. 

And — by Jove! — a flash of light! He had 
it ! The whole thing was clear now. Yes ; he 
was to be married to Caroline Oldys, because 
Mr. Larkin was the professional right hand of 
that family, and so the attorney would glide ul- 
timately into the absolute command of the House 
of Verney ! 

To think of that indescribably vulgar rogue’s 
actually shaping the fortunes and regulating the 
future sufferings of Cleve Verney ! How much 
of our miseries result from the folly of those who 
would serve us ! Here was Viscount Verney 
with, as respected Cleve, the issues of life very 
much in his fingers, dropping through sheer im- 
becility into the coarse hands of that odious at- 
torney ! 

Cleve trembled with rage as he thought of the 


degradation to which that pompous fool. Lord 
Verney, was consigning him, yet what was to be 
done ? Cleve was absolutely at the disposal of 
the peer, and the peer was unconsciously placing 
himself in the hands of Mr. Larkin, to be work- 
ed like a puppet, and spoken for by the Pharisaical 
attorney. 

Cleve’s theory hung together plausibly. It 
would have been gross folly to betray his jeal- 
ousy of the attorney, whose opportunities with 
his uncle he had no means of limiting or inter- 
rupting, and against whom he had as yet no 
case. 

He was gifted with a pretty talent for dissim- 
ulation ; Mr. Larkin congratulated himself in 
secret upon Cleve’s growing esteem and confi- 
dence. The young gentleman’s manner was 
gracious and even friendly to a degree that was 
quite marked, and the unsuspecting attorney 
would have been startled had he learned on a 
sudden how much he hated him. 

Ware — that great house which all across the 
estuary, in which its princely front was reflect- 
ed, made quite a feature in the landscape 
sketched by so many tourists from the pier on 
the shingle of Cardyllian on bright summer 
days — was about to be rehabilitated, and very 
splendid doings were to follow. 

In the mean time, before the architects and 
contractors, the plumbers, and painters, and 
carpenters, and carvers, and gilders had taken 
possession, and before those wonderful artists 
in stucco who were to encrust and overspread 
the ceilings with noble designs, rich and elegant 
and light, of fruits and flowers and cupids, and 
from memory, not having read the guide-book 
of Cardyllian and its vicinity for more than a 
year, I should be afraid to say what arabesques, 
and imagery besides, had entered with their ce- 
ments and their scaffolding ; and before the 
three brother artists had got their passports for 
England who were to paint on the panels of 
the doors such festive pieces as Watteau loved. 
In short, before the chaos and confusion that at- 
tend the throes of that sort of creation had set 
in, Lord Verney was to make a visit of a few 
days to Ware, and was to visit Cardyllian and 
to receive a congratulatory address from the 
corporation of that ancient town, and to inspect 
the gas-works (which I am glad to say are hid 
away in a little hollow), and the two fountains 
which supply the town — constructed, as the in- 
scription tells, at the expense of “ the Right 
Honorable Kiffyn Fulke, Nineteenth Viscount 
Verney, and Twenty-ninth Baron Penruthyn, of 
Malory.” What else his lordship was to see, 
and to do, and to say on the day of his visit, the 
county and other newspapers round about print- 
ed when the spectacle was actually over, and 
the great doings matter of history. 

There were arches of evergreens and artificial 
flowers of paper, among which were very tolera- 
ble hollyhocks, though the roses were starting, 
under these. Lord Viscount Verney and the 
“ distinguished party” who accompanied him 
passed up Castle Street to the town-hall, where 


102 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


he was received by the mayor and tow’ii-coun- 
cilors, accompanied and fortified by the town- 
clerk and other functionaries, all smiling except 
the mayor, on whom weighed the solemn respon- 
sibility of having to read the address, a compo- 
sition, and no mean one, of the Rev. Doctor 
Splayfoot, who attended with parental anxiety 
“ to see the little matter through,” as he 
phrased it, and was so awfully engaged that 
Mrs. Splayfoot, who was on his arm, and ask- 
ed him twice, in a whisper, whether the tall lady 
in purple silk was Lady Wimbledon, without re- 
ceiving the slightest intimation that she was so 
much as heard, remarked testily that she hoped 
he would not write many more addresses, inas- 
much as it made him ill-bred to that degree that 
if the town-hall had fallen during the reading, 
he never would have perceived it till he had 
shaken his ears in kingdom-come. Lord Ver- 
ney read his answer, which there was much anx- 
iety and pressure to hear. 

“Now it really ivas be-autiful — wasn't it?” 
our friend Mrs. Jones the draper whispered, in 
particular reference to that part of it in which 
the viscount invoked the blessing of the Al- 
mighty upon himself and his doings,, gracefully 
admitting that in contravention of the Divine 
will and the decrees of heaven, even he could 
not be expected to accomplish much, though 
with the best intentions. And Captain Shrap- 
nell. who felt that the sentiment was religious, 
and was anxious to be conspicuous, standing 
with his hat in his hand, with a sublime expres- 
sion of countenance, said in an audible voice — 

Anmi." 

All this over, and the building inspected, the 
distinguished party were conducted by the may- 
or, the militia band accompanying their march 
— [air — “The Meeting of the Waters”] — to the 
“ Fountains” in Gannon’s Lane, to which I have 
already alluded. 

Here they were greeted by a detachment of 
the Llanwthyn Temperance Union, headed by 
short, fat Thomas Pritchard, the interesting 
apostle of total abstinence, who used to preach 
on the subject alternately inWelsh and English 
in all the towns who would hear his gospel, in 
most of which he was remembered as having 
been repeatedly fined for public intoxication, 
and known by the familiar pet name of “ Swi- 
pey Tom,” before his remarkable conversion. 

Mr. Pritchard now led the choir of the 
Llanwthyn Temperance Union, consisting of 
seven members, of various sizes, dressed in their 
Sunday costume, and standing in a row in front 
of fountain No. 1 — each with his hat in his 
left hand and a tumbler of fair water in his 
right. 

Good Mrs. Jones, who had a vague sense of 
fun, and remembered anedotes of the principal 
figure in this imposing spectacle, did laugh a 
little modestly into her handkerchief, and an- 
SAvered the admonitory jog of her husband’s el- 
bow by pleading — “jPoor fellows! Well, you^ 
know it is odd — there’s no denying that, you 
know and from the background wei'e heard 


some jeers from the excursionists who visited 
Cardyllian for that gala, which kept Hughes, 
the Cardyllian policeman, and Evans, the other 
“ homey,” who had been drafted from Lluinan, 
to help to overawe the turbulent, very hot and 
active during that part of the ceremony. 

Particularly unruly was John Swillers, who, 
having failed as a publican in Liverpool, in con- 
sequence of his practice of drinking the greater 
part of his own stock in trade, had migrated to 
“ The Golden Posts” in Church Street, Cardyl- 
lian, where he ceased to roll his barrel, set up 
his tressels, and had tabernacled for the present, 
drinking his usual proportion of his own liquors, 
and expecting the hour of a new migration. 

Over the heads of the spectators and the ad- 
miring natives of Cardyllian w’ere heard such 
exhortations as “ Go it, Swipey,” “ There’s gin 
in that,” “ Five shillin’ for his vorship, Swipey,” 
“I say, Swipey Tom, pay your score at the 
Golden Posts, will ye ?” “ Will ye go a bit on 
the stretcher, Swipey?” “Here’s two horneys 
as ’ll take ye home arterdhat.” 

And these interruptions, I am sorry to say, 
continued, notwithstanding the remonstrances 
which Mr. Hughes addressed almost pathetical- 
ly to John Swillers of the Golden Posts, as a 
respectable citizen of Cardyllian, one from 
whose position the police -svere led to expect as- 
sistance and the populace an example. There 
was something in these expostulations which 
struck John Swdllers, for he would look with a 
tipsy solemnity in Hughes’s face while he deliv- 
ered them, and once took his hand, rather affec- 
tionately, and said, “That’s your sort.” But 
invariably these unpleasant interpellations w^ere 
resumed, and did not cease until this moral ex- 
hibition had ended with the last verse of the 
temperance song, chanted by the deputation with 
great vigor, in unison, and which, as the reader 
will perceive, had in it a Bacchanalian charac- 
ter, which struck even the gravest listeners as 
a hollow mockery ; 

Refreshing more than sinful swipes, 

The weary man 
Who quaffs a can, 

That sparkling foams through leaden pipes. 

CnoEUS. 

Let every man 
Tiien, fill his can. 

And fill the glass 
Of every lass 

In brimming bumpers sparkling clear, 

To pledge the health of Verney’s peer! 

And then came a chill and ghastly “hip-hip, 
hurrah,” and with some gracious inquiries on 
Lord Verney’s part, as to the numbers, progress, 
and finances of “ their interesting association,” 
and a subscription of ten pounds, which Mr. J ohn 
Swillers took leave to remark, “wouldn’t be 
laid out on water, by no means,” the viscount, 
with grand and radiant Mr. Larkin at his elbow', 
and frequently murmuring in his ear — to the 
infinite disgust of my friend, the Cardyllian at- 
torney, thus 'outstrutted and outcrowed on his 
own rustic elevation — was winning golden opin- 
ions from all sorts of men. 


THE TENANTS OF MALOBY. 


103 


The party went on, after the wonders of the 
town had been exhausted, to look at Malory, 
and thence return to a collation, at which toasts 
were toasted and speeches spoken, and Captain 
Shrapnell spoke, by arrangement, for the ladies 
of Cardyllian in his usual graceful and facetious 
manner, with all the puns and happy allusions 
which a month’s private diligence, and, I am 
sorry to say, some shameless plagiarisms from 
three old numbers of poor Tom Hood’s ‘ ‘ Comic 
Annual,” could get together, and the gallant 
captain concluded by observing that the noble 
lord whom they had that day the honor and 
happiness to congratulate, intended, he under- 
stood, every thing that was splendid and liberal 
and handsome, and that the town of Cardyllian, 
in the full radiance of the meridian sunshine, 
whose golden splendor proceeded from the south 
— “The cardinal point at which the great 
house of Ware is visible from the Green of Car- 
dyllian” — (hear, hear, and laughter) — “there 
remained but one grievance to be redressed, 
and that set to rights, every ground of complaint 
would slumber forever, he might say, in the 
great bed of Ware” — (loud cheers and laughter) 
— “and what was that complaint? He w'as 
instructed by his fair, lovely, and beautiful clients 
— -the ladies of Cardyllian — some of whom he saw 
in the gallery, and some still more happily situ- 
ated at the festive board” — (a laugh). “ Well, 
he was, he repeated, instructed by them to say 
that there was one obvious duty which the no- 
ble lord owed to his ancient name — to the fame 
of his public position — to the coronet, whose 
golden band encircled his distinguished brow — 
and above all, to the ancient feudal dependency 
of Cardyllian” — (hear, hear)— “ and that was 
to select from his country’s beauty, fascination, 
and accomplishment, and he mi^ht say loveli- 
ness, a partner worthy to share the ermine and 
the coronet and the name and the — the ermine 
(hear, hear) of the ancient house of Verney” 
(loud cheers); “and need he add that when 
the selection was made, it was hoped and trust- 
ed and aspired after, that the selection would 
not be made a hundred miles away from the 
ivied turrets, the feudal ruins, the gushing fount- 
ains, and the spacious town-hall of Cardyllian” 
— (loud and long continued cheering, amid 
which the gallant captain, very hot, and red, 
and smiling furiously, sat down with a sort of 
lurch, and drank off a glass of champagne, and 
laughed and giggled a little in his chair while 
the “ cheering and laughter” continued). 

And Lord Verney rose, not at all hurt by this 
liberty, very much amused on the contrary, and 
in high good humor his lordship said — 

“ Allow me to say — I am sure you will” — 
(hear, hear, and cries of “We will”) — “ I say, 
1 am sure you will permit me to say that the 
ladies of Cardyllian, a-a-about it, seem to me 
to have chosen a very eloquent spokesman in 
the gallant, and I have no doubt, distinguished 
officer who has just addressed the house. We 
have all been entertained by the eloquence of 
Captain Scollop” — [here the mayor deferentially 


whispered something to the noble orator] — “ I 
beg pardon — Captain Grapnell — who sits at the 
table, with his glass of wine, about it — and very 
good wine it is — his glass, I say, where it should 
be, in his hand” (hear, hear, and laughter, and 
“ You got it there, captain”). “And I assure 
the gallant captain I did not mean to be severe 
— only we are all joking — and I do say that 
he has his hand — my gallant friend. Captain 
Grabblet, has it — where every gallant officer’s 
ought to be, about it, and that is, upon his 
weapon” — (hear, hear, laughter, and cries of 
“ His lordship’s too strong for you, captain”). 
“I don’t mean to hurt him, though, about it” 
(renewed cries of hear, and laughter), during 
which the captain shook his ears a little, smiling 
into his glass rather foolishly, as a man who was 
getting the worst of it, and knew it, but took it 
all pleasantly. ‘ ‘ No, it would not be fair to the 
ladies, about it” (renewed laughter and cheer- 
ing), ‘ ‘ and all I will say is this, about it — there 
are parts of Captain Scraplet’s speech, which I 
shan’t undertake to answer at this moment. I 
feel that I am trespassing, about it, for a much 
longer time than I had intended” (loud cries 
of “No, no. Goon, go on,” and cheering), during 
which the mayor whispered something to the 
noble lord, who, having heard it twice or thrice, 
repeated, nodded to the mayor in evident appre- 
hension, and when silence was restored proceed- 
ed to say, “ I have just heard, without meaning 
to say any thing unfair of the gallant captain. 
Captain Scalpel, that he is hardly himself qualified 
to give me the excellent advice, about it, which I 
received from him ; for they tell me that he has 
rather run away, about it, from his colors, on that 
occasion.” (Great laughter and cheering.) “ I 
should be sorry to wound Captain Shat — Scat 
— Scrap, the gallant captain, to wound him, I 
say, even in front.” (Laughter, cheering, and 
a voice from the gallery “Hit him hard, and 
he won’t swell,” “ Order.”) “ But I think I 
was bound to make that observation in the 
interest of the ladies of Cardyllian, about it” 
(renewed laughter); “and, for my part, I 
promise my gallant friend — my — captain — about 
it — that although I may take some time, like 
himself” (loud laughter) ; “ yet although I can 
not let fall, about it, any observation that may 
commit me, yet I do promise to meditate on the 
excellent advice he has been so good as to give 
me, about it.” And the noble lord resumed his 
seat amid uproarious cheering and general laugh- 
ter, wondering what had happened to put him 
in the vein, and regretting that some of the 
people of Downing Street had not been present 
to hear it, and witness its effect. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

OLD FRIENDS ON THE GREEN. 

Tom Sedley saw the Etherage girls on the 
geen, and instead of assisting, as he had intend- 
ed, at the great doings in the town, he walked 
over to have a talk with them. 


104 


THE TENANTS OE MALOEY. 


People who know Cardyllian remember the 
two seats, partly stone, partly wood, which are 
placed on the green, near the margin of the 
sea — seats without backs — on which you can 
sit with equal comfort, facing the water and 
the distant mountains, or the white-fronted 
town and old Castle of Cardyllian. Looking 
toward this latter prospect, the ladies sat, in- 
terested, no doubt, though they preferred a 
distant view, in the unusual bustle of the quiet 
old place. 

On one of these seats sat Charity and Agnes, 
and as he approached, smiling, up got Charity 
and walked some steps toward him, looking 
kindly, but not smiling, for that was not her 
wont, and with her thin hand in dog-skin glove 
extended to greet him. 

‘‘ How are you, Thomas Sedley ? when did 
you come?” asked Miss Charity, much gladder 
to see him than she appeared. 

“I arrived this morning; you’re all well, I 
hope;” he was looking at Agnes, and would 
have got away from Miss Charity, but that she 
held him still by the hand. 

‘‘All very well, thank you, except Agnes. 
I don’t think she’s very well. I have ever so 
much to tell you when you and I have a quiet 
opportunity, but not now,” — she was speaking 
in a low tone ;— “and now go and ask Agnes 
how she is.” 

So he did. She smiled a little languidly, he 
thought, and was not looking very strong, but 
prettier than ever — so very pretty ! She blush- 
ed too, very brilliantly, as he approached ; it 
would have been very flattering had he not 
seen Cleve Verney walking quickly over the 
green toward the Etherage group. For whom 
was the blush ? Two gentlemen had fired sim- 
ultaneously. 

‘ ‘ Your bird ? I rather think my bird ? — isn’t 
it?” 

Now Tom Sedley did not think the bird his, 
and he felt, somehow, strangely vexed. And 
he got through his greeting uncomfortably ; his 
mind was away with Cleve Verney, who was 
drawing quickly near. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Verney, what a time it is since 
we saw you last !” exclaimed emphatic Miss 
Charity; “ I really began to think you’d never 
come.” 

“ Very good of you. Miss Etherage, to think 
about me.” 

“And you never gave me your subscription 
for our poor old woman, last winter!” 

“ Oh ! my subscription? I’ll give it now — 
what was it to be — a pound ?” 

“No, you promised only ten shillings, but it 
ought to be a pound. I think less would bo 
shamefuV^ 

“Then, Miss Agnes, shall it be a pound?” 
he said, turning to her with a laugh — with his 
fingers in his purse, “ whatever you say I’ll do.” 

Agnes — of course a pound,” said Charity, 
in her nursery style of admonition. 

“ Charity says it must be a pound,” answer- 
ed Agnes. 


“ And you say so ?” 

“Of course I must.” 

“ Then a pound it is — and mind,” he added, 
laughing, and turning to Miss Charity with 
the coin in his fingers, “ I’m to figure in your 
book of benefactors — your golden book of saints, 
or martyrs, rather, but you need not put down 
my name, only ‘ The old woman’s friend, ’ or ‘ A 
lover of flannel,’ or ‘ A promoter of petticoats,’ 
or any other benevolent alias you think becom- 
ing.” 

“ ‘ The old woman’s friend,’ will do very 
nicely,” said Charity gravely. “ Thank you, 
Mr. Verney, and we were so glad to hear that 
your uncle had succeeded at last to the peerage. 
He can be of such use — you really would be — 
he and you both, Mr. Verney — quite amazed 
and astounded, if you knew how much poverty 
there is in this town.” 

“ It’s well he does not know just now, for he 
wants all his wits about him. This is a critic- 
al occasion, you know, and the town expects 
great things from a practiced orator. I’ve 
stolen away just for five minutes, to ask you 
the news. We are at Ware, for a few days, 
only two or three friends with us. They came 
across in my boat to-day. We are going to 
set all the tradespeople on earth loose upon 
the house in a few days. It is to be done in 
an incredibly short time ; and my uncle is 
talking of getting down some of his old lady rela- 
tions to act chaperon, and we hope to have you 
all over there. You know it’s all made up, that 
little coldness between my uncle and your fa- 
ther. I’m so glad. Your father wrote him 
such a nice note to-day explaining his absence 
— he never goes into a crowd, he says — and 
Lord Verney wrote him a line to say if he 
would allow him he would go up to Hazelden 
to pay his respects this afternoon.” 

This move was a suggestion of Mr. Larkin’s, 
who was pretty well up in election strategy. 

“ I’ve ascertained, my lord, he’s good for a 
hundred and thirty-seven votes in the county, 
and your lordship has managed him with such 
consummate tact that a very little more will, with 
the Divine blessing, induce the happiest, and 
I may say, considering the disparity of your 
lordship’s relations and his, the most dutiful 
feelings on his part — resulting, in fact, in your 
lordship’s obtaining the absolute command of 
the constituency. You were defeated my lord, 
last time, by only forty-three votes, with his in- 
fluence against you. If your lordship w’ere to 
start your nephewq Mr. Cleve Verney, for it 
next time, having made your ground good with 
him, he would be returned, humanly speaking, 
by a sweeping majority.” 

“So, Lord Verney’s going up to see papa! 
Agnes, we ought to be at home. He must have 
luncheon.” 

“ No — a thousand thanks — but all that’s ex- 
plained. There’s luncheon to be in the town- 
hall — it’s part of the programme — and speech- 
es — and all that kind of rubbish ; so he can only 
run up for a few minutes, just to say, ‘ How do 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


105 


ye do?’ and away again. So, pray, don’t think 
of going all that way, and he’ll come here to be 
introduced, and make your acquaintance ; and 
now tell me all your news. ” 

“Well, those odd people went away from 
Malory” — began Charity. 

“ Oh, yes, I heard, I think, something of 
that,” said Cleve, intending to change the sub- 
ject, perhaps. But Miss Charity went on, for 
in that eventless scene an occurrence of any 
kind is too precious to be struck out of the 
record on any ground. 

“ They went away as mysteriously as they 
came — almost — and so suddenly — ” 

“You forget, Charity, dear, Mr. Verney was 
at Ware when they went, and here two or three 
times after they left Malory.” 

“So I ivas,” said Cleve, with an uneasy 
glance at Tom Sedley, “I knew I had heard 
something of it.” 

“ Oh, yes, and they say that the old man 
was both mad and in debt.” 

“ What a combination !” said Cleve. 

“ Yes, I assure you, and a Jew came down 
with twenty or thirty bailiffs — I’m only telling 
you what Mr. Apjohn heard, and the people 
here tell us — and a mad doctor, and ever so 
many people with straight waistcoats, and they 
surrounded Malpry ; but he was gone ! — not a 
human being knew where — and that handsome 
girl, wasn’t she quite hee-au-ti-fal 

“ Oh, what every one says, you know, must 
be true,” said Cleve. 

“ What do you say ?” she urged upon Tom 
Sedley. 

“ Oh, I say ditto to every one, of course.” 

“Well, I should think so, for you know you 
are quite desperately in love with her,” said 
Miss Charity. 

a If Why, I really never spoke to her in all 
my life. Now if you had said Cleve Verney.” 

“ Oh, yes ! If you had named me. But, 
by J ove, there they go. Do you see ? My 
uncle and the mayor, and all the lesser people, 
trooping away to the town-hall. Good-bye ! I 
haven’t another moment. You’ll be here, I 
hope^ when we get out ; do, pray. I have not 
a moment.” 

And he meant a glance for Miss Agnes, but 
it lost itself in air, for that young lady was 
looking down, in a little reverie on the grass, 
at the tip of her tiny boot. 

^’‘There's old Miss Christian out,l declare, 
exclaimed Charity. “Did you ever hear of 
such a thing ? I wonder whether doctor knows 
she’s out to day. I’ll just go and speak to her. 
If he doesn’t. I’ll simply tell her she’s mad.'"* 

And away marched Miss Charity, bent upon 
finding out, as she said, all about it. 

“Agnes,” said Tom Sedley, “it seemed to 
me you were not glad to see me. Are you 
vexed with me ?” 

“Vexed? No, indeed!” she said, gently, 
and looking up with a smile. 

“And your sister said — ” Tom paused, for he 
did not know whether Charity’s whisper about 


her not having been “very strong” might not 
be a confidence. 

“ What does Charity say?” asked Agnes 
almost sharply, while a little flush appeared in 
her cheeks. 

“ Well, she said she did not think you were 
so strong as usual. That was all.” 

“That was all — no great consequence,” said 
she, with a little smile upon the grass and sea- 
pinks — a smile that was bitter. 

“ You can’t think I meant that, little 
Agnes, I of all people ; but I never was good 
at talking. And you know I did not mean that.” 

“ People often say — I do, I know — what they 
mean without intending it,” she answered, 
carelessly. “ I know you would not make a 
rude speech — I am sure of that; and as to 
what we say accidentally, can it signify very 
much? Mr. Verney said he was coming back 
after the speeches, and Lord Verney, he said, 
didn’t he ? I wonder you don’t look in at the 
town-hall. You could make us laugh, by 
telling all about it by and by — that is, if we 
happen to see you again. 

“ Of course you should see me again.” 

“ I meant this evening ; to-morrow I am 
sure we should,” said she. 

“If I went there; but I am not going. I 
think that old fellow. Lord Verney, Cleve’s 
uncle, is an impertinent old muff. Every one 
knows he’s a muff, though he is Cleve’s uncle ; 
he gave me just one finger to-day, and looked at 
me as if I ought to be anywhere but where I was. 
I have as good a right as he to be in Cardyllian, 
and I venture to say the people like me agreat 
deal better than they like him, or ever will.” 

“ And so you punish him by refusing your 
countenance to this — what shall I call it ? — 
gala.” 

“ Oh ! of course you take the Verney s’ part 
against me ; they are swells, and I am a no- 
body.” 

He thought Miss Agnes colored a little at 
this remark. The blood grows sensitive and 
capricious when people are ailing, and a hint 
is enough to send it to or fro ; but she said 
only — * 

“I never heard of the feud before. I 
thought that you and Mr. Verney were very 
good friends.” 

“So we are ; so we are — Cleve and I. Of 
course, I was speaking of the old lord. Cleve, 
of course, no one ever hears any. thing but 
praises of Cleve. I suppose I ought to beg your 
pardon for having talked as I did of old Lord 
Verney; it’s petty treason, isn’t it, to talk light- 
ly of a Verney, in Cardyllian or its neighbor- 
hood ? said Sedley, a little sourly. 

“I don’t know^Aa^; but I dare say if you 
mean to ask leave to fish or shoot, it might be 
as well not to attack them.” 

“Well, I shan’t in your hearing.” 

And with this speech came a silence. 

“I don’t think, somehow, that Cleve is as 
frank with me as he used to be. Can you imag- 
ine any reason ?” said Tom, after an interval. 


106 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


“ I? No, upon my word — unless you are as 
frank to him about his uncle as you have been 
with me.” 

“ Well, I’m not. I never spoke to him about 
his uncle. But Shrapnell, who tells me all the 
news of Cardyllian while I’m away” — this was 
pointedly spoken — “said I thought he had not 
been down here ever since the Malory people 
left, and I find that he was here for a week — at 
least at Ware — last Autumn, for a fortnight ; 
and he never told me, though he knew, for I 
said so to him, that I thought he had stayed 
away, and I think that W'as very odd.” 

“lie may have thought that he was not 
bound to account to you for his time and 
movements,” said Miss Agnes. 

“Well, he ivas here; Mrs. Jones W'as good 
enough to tell me so, though other people make 
a secret of it ; you saw him here, I dare say.” 

“ Yes he icas here, for a few days. I think 
in October, or the end of September.” 

“Oh! thank you. But as I said, I had 
heard that already from Mrs. Jones, who is a 
most inconvenient gossip upon nearly all sub- 
jects.” 

“I rather like Mrs. Jones; you mean the 
‘ draper,’ as -we call her? and if Mr. Verney is 
not as communicative as you would have him, 
I really can’t help it ; I can only assure you 
for your comfort that the mysterious tenants of 
Malory had disappeared long before that visit.” 

“I know perfectly when they w^ent away,” 
said Sedley dryly. 

Miss Agnes nodded with a scarcely percepti- 
ble smile. 

“ And I know — that is, I found out afterward 
— that he admired her, I mean the young lady 
— Margaret, they called her — awfully. He 
never let me know it himself, though. I hate 
fellow’s being so close and dark about every 
thing ; and, in short, if people don’t like to tell 
their — secrets I W’on’t call them, for every one 
in Cardyllian know’S all about them — I’m hang- 
ed if I ask them. All I know is, that Cleve is 
going to live a good deal at Ware, which means 
at Cardyllian, w’hich will be a charming thing, 
a positive blessing, W’on’t it ? for the inhabit- 
ants and neighbors, and that I shall trouble 
them very little henceforward with my pres- 
ence. There’s Charity beckoning to me ; 
would you mind my going to see what she 
w’ants ?” 

So, dismissed, aw’ay he ran like a “ fielder” 
after a “by,” as he had often run over the same 
ground before. 

“ Thomas Sedley, I want you to tell Lyster, 
the apothecary, to send a small bottle of sal 
volatile to Miss Christian immediately. I’d go 
myself — it’s only round the corner — but I am 
afraid of the crowd. If he can give it to you 
now, perhaps you’d bring it, and I’ll wait here.” 

When he brought back the phial, and Miss 
Charity had given it with a message at Miss 
Christian’s trellaced door, she took Tom’s arm, 
and said — 

“ She has not been looking w’ell.” 


“ You mean Agnes ?” conjectured he. 

“Yes, of course. She’s not herself She 
does not tell me, but I know the cause, and, as 
an old friend of ours, and a friend, besides, of 
Mr. Cleve Verney, I must tell you that I think 
he is using her disgracefully^' 

“ Keally ?” 

“Yes, most flagitiously." 

“How do you mean? Shrapnell WTOte me 
w’ord that he was very attentive, and used to 
join her in her walks, and afterward he said 
that he had been mistaken, and discovered that 
he was awfully in love with the young lady at 
Malory. ” 

^^Don't believe a word of it. I wonder at 
Captain Shrapnell circulating such insanity. 
He must know how it really w^as, and is. I 
look upon it as perfectly wicked^ the way that 
Captain Shrapnell talks. You are not to men- 
tion it, of coifrse, to any one. It W’ould be scan- 
dalous of you, Thomas Sedley, to think of breath- 
ing a woi'd to mortal — niind that ; but I’m cer- 
tain you wouldn't." 

“What a beast Cleve Verney has turned 
out !” exclaimed Tom Sedley. “ Do you think 
she still cares for him ?” 

“ Why, of course she does. If he had been 
paying his addresses to me, and that / had 
grown by his perseverance and devotion to like 
him, do you think, Thomas Sedley, that al- 
though I might give him up in consequence of 
his misconduct, that I could ever cease to feel 
the same kind of feeling about him ?” And as 
she put this incongruous case, she held Tom 
Sedley’s arm firmly, showing her bony w’rist 
above her glove ; and with her gaunt brown 
face and saucer eyes turned full upon him, rath- 
er fiercely. Tom felt an inward convulsion at 
the picture of Clove’s adorations at this shrine, 
and the melting of the nymph, which by a mir- 
acle he repressed. 

“But you may have more constancy than 
Agnes,” he suggested. 

“Don’t talk like a fool, Thomas Sedley. 
Every nice girl is the same." 

“May I talk to Cleve about it?” 

“ On no account. No nice girl could marry 
him now, and an apology would be simply ridic- 
idous. I have not spoken to him on the sub- 
ject, and though I had intended cutting him, 
my friend Mrs. Splayfoot was so clear that I 
should meet him just as usual, that I do con- 
trol the expression of my feelings, and endeavor 
to talk to him indifferently, though I should 
like uncommonly to tell him how odious I shall 
always think him.” 

“Yes, I remember,” said Tom, who had 
been pondering. “ Cleve did tell me, that time 
— it’s more than a year ago now — it was a 
year in Autumn — that he admired Agnes, and 
used to walk w’ith you on the green every day ; 
he did certainly. I must do him that justice. 
But suppose Agnes did not show that she liked 
him, he might not have seen any harm.” 

“ That’s the way you men always take one 
another’s parts. I m ust say, I think it is odious, ” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


107 


exclaimed Charity, with a flush in her thin 
cheeks, and a terrible emphasis. 

“But, I say, did she let him see that she 
liked him?” 

“ No, of course she didn’t. No nice girl woidd. 
But of course he saw it,” argued Charity. 

“ Oh, then she showed it ?” 

“No, she did not show it ; there was nothing 
in any thing she said or did, that could lead any 
one, by look, or word, or act, to imagine that 
she liked him. How can you be so perverse 
and ridiculous, Thomas Sedley, to think she’d 
show her liking? Why, even I don’t know it. 
I never saw it. She’s a great deal too nice. 
You don’t know Agnes. I should not venture 
to hint at it myself. Gracious goodness ! What 
a fool you are. Thomas Sedley! Hush.” 

, The concluding caution was administered in 
consequence of their having got very near the 
seat where Agnes was sitting. 

“Miss Christian is only nervous, poor old 
thing, and Tom Sedley has been getting sal vol- 
atile for her, and she’ll be quite well in a day 
or two. Hadn’t we better walk a little up and 
down ? it’s growing too cold for you to sit any 
longer, Agnes dear. Come.” 

And up got obedient Agnes, and the party 
of three walked up and down the green, convers- 
ing upon all sorts of subjects but the one so 
ably handled by Charity and Tom Sedley in 
their two or three minutes’ private talk. 

And now the noble lord and his party, and 
the mayor, and the corporation, and Mr. Lar- 
kin, and Captain Shrapnell, and many other 
celebrities, were seen slowly emerging from the 
lane that passes the George Inn, upon the green, 
and the peer having said a word or two to the 
mayor, and also to Lady Wimbledon, and bow- 
ed and pointed toward the jetty, the main body 
proceeded slowly toward that point, while Lord 
Verney, accompanied by Cleve, walked grandly 
toward the young ladies who were to be pre- 
sented. 

Tom Sedley, observing this movement, took 
his leave hastily, and in rather a marked way 
walked off at right angles with Lord Verney’s 
line of march, twirling his cane. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

VANE ETHERAGE GREETS LORD VERNEY. 

So the great Lord Verney, with the flush of 
his brilliant successes in the town-hall still upon 
his thin cheeks, and a countenance dry and sol- 
emn, to which smiling came not easily, made 
the acquaintance of the Miss Etherages, and 
observed that the younger was “ sweetly pret- 
ty, about it, and her elder sister appeared to 
him a particularly sensible young woman, and 
was, he understood, very useful in the charities, 
and things.” And he repeated to them, in his 
formal way, his hope of seeing them at Ware, 
and was gracious as such a man can be, and in- 
stead of attorneys and writs sent grouse and 
grapes to Hazelden. 


And thus this narrow man, who did not easi- 
ly forgive, expanded and forgave, and the secret 
of the subsidence of the quarrel, and of the 
Christian solution of the “ difiiculty,” was sim- 
ply Mr. Vane Etherage’s hundred and thirty 
votes in the county. 

What a blessing to these countries is repre- 
sentative government, with its attendant insti- 
tution of the canvass ! It is the one galvanism 
which no material can resist. It melts every 
heart, and makes the coldest, hardest, heaviest 
metals burst into beautiful flame. Granted that at 
starting, the geniality, repentance, kindness, arc 
so many arrant hypocrisies ; yet who can tell 
whether these repentances, in white sheets, taper 
in hand, these offerings of birds and fruits, 
these smiles and compliments, and “Christian 
courtesies,” may not end in improving the man 
who is compelled to act like a good fellow and 
accept his kindly canons, and improve him also 
with whom these better relations are establish- 
ed ? As muscle is added to the limb, so strength 
is added to the particular moral quality we ex- 
ercise, and kindness is elicited, and men perhaps 
end by having some of the attributes which they 
began by affecting. At all events, any recogni- 
tion of the kindly and peaceable social philoso- 
phy of Christainity is, so far as it goes, good. 

“What a sensible, nice, hospitable old man 
Lord Verney is ; I think him the most sensible 
and the nicest man I ever met,” said Miss Chari- 
ty, in an enthusiasm which was quite genuine, 
for she was, honestly, no respecter of persons. 
“ And young Mr. Verney certainly looked very 
handsome, but I don’t like him.” 

‘ ‘ Don’t like him ! Why f' said Agnes, look- 
ing up. 

“Because I think him perfectly odious f re- 
plied Miss Cliarity. 

Agnes was inured to Miss Charity’s adjec- 
tives, and even the fierce flush that accom- 
panied some of them failed to alarm her. 

“ Well, I rather like him,” she said, quietly. 

“You carUt like him, Agnes. It is not a 
matter of opinion at all ; it’s just simply a mat- 
ter of fact — and you know that he is a most 
worldly, selfish, cruel, and, I think, loickedyoxva^ 
man, and you need not talk about him, for he’s 
odious. And here comes Thomas Sedley again.” 

Agnes smiled a faint and bitter smile. 

“ And what do you think of him .^” she asked. 

“ Thomas Sedley? Of course I like him; 
we all like him. Don’t you ?” answered 
Charity. 

“Yes, pretty well — very well. I suppose he 
has faults, like other people. lie’s good-humor- 
ed, selfish, of course — I fancy they all are. 
And papa likes him, I think ; but really, Char- 
rie, if you want to know, I don’t care if I never 
saw him again.” 

“Hush!” 

^^Well! You’ve got rid of the Verneys, 
and here I am again,” said Tom, approaching. 
“They are going up to Hazelden to see your 
father.” 

And so they were — up that pretty walk that 


108 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


passes the mills and ascends steeply by the pre- 
cipitous side of the wooded glen, so steep, 
that in two places you have to mount by rude 
flights of steps — a most sequestered glen, and 
utterly silent, except for the sound of the mill- 
stream tinkling and crooning through the rocks 
below, unseen through the dense boughs and 
stems of the wood beneath. 

If Lord Verney in his conciliatory condescen- 
sion was grand, so was Vane Ether age on the 
occasion of receiving and forgiving him at 
Hazelden. He had considered and constructed 
a little speech, with some pomp of language, 
florid and magnanimous. He had sat in his 
bath-chair for half an hour at the little iron gate 
of the flower-garden of Hazelden, no inmate of 
which had ever seen him look, for a continu- 
ance, so sublimely important, and indeed sol- 
emn, as he had done all that morning. 

Vane Etherage had made his arrangements 
to receive Lord Verney with a dignified defer- 
ence. He was to be wheeled down the incline 
about 200 yards, to ‘ ‘ the bower, ” to meet the 
peer at that point, and two lusty fellows were 
to push him up by Lord Verney ’s side to the 
house, where wine and other comforts awaited 
him. 

John Evans had been placed at the mill to 
signal to the people above at Hazelden by a 
musket-shot the arrival of Lord Verney at that 
stage of his progress. The flag-staff and rig- 
ging on the green platform at Hazelden were 
fluttering all over with all the flags that ever 
were invented, in honor of the gala. 

Lord Verney ascended, leaning upon the arm 
of his nephew, with Mr. Larkin and the major 
for supporters. Captain Shrapnell, Doctor Lys- 
ter, and two or three other distinguished inhab- 
itants of Cardyllian bringing up the rear. 

Lord Verney carried his head high, and grew 
reserved and rather silent as they got on, and 
as they passed under the solemn shadow of the 
great trees by the mill, an overloaded musket 
went off with a sound like a cannon, as Lord 
Verney afterward protested, close to the unsus- 
pecting party, and a loud and long whoop from 
John Evans completed the concerted signal. 

The viscount actually jumped, and Cleve 
felt the shock of his arm against his side. 

D — you, John Evans, what the devil are 
you doing f'* exclaimed Captain Shrapnell, who, 
turning from white to crimson, was the first of 
the party to recover his voice. 

“ Yes, sir, thank you — very good,” said 
Evans, touching his hat, and smiling incessantly 
with the incoherent volubility of Welsh polite- 
ness. “A little bit of a squib, sir, if you 
please, for Captain Squire Etherage — very well, 
I thank you — to let him know Lord Verney — 
very much obliged, sir — was at the mill — how 
do you do, sir ? — and going up to Hazelden, if 
you please, sir.” 

And the speech subsided in a little gratified 
laugh of delighted politeness. 

“You’d better not do that again^ though,” 
said the captain, with a menacing wag of his 


head ; and availing himself promptly of the op- 
portunity of improving his relations with Lord 
Verney, he placed himself by his side, and as- 
sured him that though he was an old cam- 
paigner, and had smelled powder in all parts of 
the world, he had never heard such a report 
from a musket in all his travels and adventures 
before; and hoped Lord Verney’s hearing was 
not the worse of it. He had known a general 
officer deafened by a shot, and, by Jove, his 
own ears were singing with it still, accustomed 
as he was, by Jupiter, to such things. 

His lordship, doing his best on the festive oc- 
casion, smiled uncomfortably, and said — 

“Yes — thanks — ha, ha! I really thought 
it was a cannon — about it.” 

And Shrapnell called back and said — 

“ Don’t you be coming on with that thing, 
John Evans — do you mind? — Lord Verney’s 
had quite enough of that.” 

“ You’ll excuse me. Lord Verney, I thought 
you’d wish so much said,” and Lord Verney 
bowed graciously. 

The answering shot and cheer which were 
heard from above announced to John Evans 
that the explosion had been heard at Hazelden, 
and still smiling and touching his heart, he 
continued his voluble civilities — “Very good, 
sir, very much obliged, sir, very well, I thank 
you ; I hope you are very well, sir, very good 
indeed, sir,” and so forth, till they were out of 
hearing. 

The shot, indeed, was distinctly heard at the 
gay flag-staff up at Hazelden, and the admiral 
got under weigh, and proceeded down the in- 
cline charmingly till they had nearly reached 
the little platform at the bower, where, like 
Christian in his progress, he was to make a halt. 

But his plans at this point were disturbed. 
Hardly twenty yards before they reached it, one 
of his men let go, the drag upon the other sud- 
denly increased, and resulted in a pull, which 
caused him to trip, and as men tripping while 
in motion down-hill will, he butted forward, 
charging headlong, and finally tumbling on his 
face, he gave to the rotary throne of Mr. Ether- 
age such an impulse as carried him quite past 
the arbor, and launched him upon the steep de- 
scent of the gravel walk with a speed every mo- 
ment accelerated. 

“ Stop her ! — ease her ! — d — you, Wil- 
liams!” roared the admiral, little knowing how 
idle were his orders. The bath-chair had taken 
head, the pace became furious; the running 
footmen gave up pursuit in despair, and Mr. 
Vane Etherage was obliged to concentrate his 
severest atter jion, as he never did before, on the 
task of gu’ ,.ng his flying vehicle, a feat which 
was happily favored by the fact that the decliv- 
ity presented no short turns. 

The sounds were heard below — a strange 
ring of wheels, and a powerful voice bawling, 
“Ease her! stop her!” and some stronger ex- 
pressions. 

“Can’t be a carriage, about it, here?'' ex- 
claimed Lord Verney, halting abruptly, and 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


109 


only restrained from skipping upon the side 
bank by a sense of dignity. 

“Never mind, Lord Verney, don’t mind, I’ll 
take care of yon, I’m your van-guard,” exclaim- 
ed Captain Shrapnell, with a dare-devil gayety, 
inspired by the certainty that it could not be a 
carriage, and the conviction that the adventure 
would prove nothing more than some children 
a-nd nursery-maids playing with a perambulator. 

His feelings underwent a revulsion, however, 
when old Vane Etherage, enveloped in cloaks 
and shawls, his hat gonCj and his long grizzled 
hair streaming backward, with a wild counte- 
nance, and both hands working the directing 
handle, came swooping into sight, roaring mani- 
acally, “Ease her! back -her!” and yawning 
frightfully in his descent upon them. 

Captain Shrapnell, they say, turned pale at 
the spectacle, but he felt he must now go 
through with it, or forever sacrifice that castle 
in the air, of which the events of the day had 
suggested the ground-plan and elevation. 

“Good heaven! he’ll be killed, about it!” 
exclaimed Lord Verney, peeping from behind 
a tree, with unusual energy ; but whether he 
meant Shrapnell or Etherage, or both, I don’t 
know, and nobody in that moment of sincerity 
minded much what he meant. I dare say a 
front-rank man in a square at Waterloo did not 
feel before the gallop of the Cuirassiers as the 
gallant captain did before the charge of the 
large invalid who was descending upon him. 
All he meditated was a decent show of resist- 
ance, and as he had a stout walking-stick in his 
hand, something might be done without risking 
his bones. So, as the old gentleman thunder- 
ed downward, roaring “Keep her off — keep her 
clear,” Shrapnell, roaring “I’m your man!” 
nervously popped the end of his stick under the 
front wheel of the vehicle, himself skipping to 
one side, unhappily the wrong one, for the chair 
at this check spun round, and the next specta- 
cle was, Mr. Vane Etherage and Captain Shrap- 
nell, enveloped in cloaks and mufflers, and roll- 
ing over and over in one another’s arms, like 
athletes in mortal combat, the captain’s fist 
being visible, as they rolled round, at Mr. Vane 
Etherage’s back, with his walking-stick still 
clutched in it. 

The chair was lying on its side, the gentle- 
men were separated. Captain Shrapnell jump- 
ed to his feet. 

“Well, Lord Verney, I believe I did some- 
thing there !” said the gallant captain with the 
air of a man who has done his duty and knows it. 

“Done something! you’ve broke my neck, 
ycu lubber !” panted Mr. Vane Etherage, who, 
his legs not being available, had been placed 
sitting, with some cloaks about him, on the 
bank. 

Shrapnell grinned and winked expressively, 
and confidentially whispei'ed, “Jolly old fellow 
he is — no one minds the admiral ; we let him 
talk.” 

“Lord Verney,” said his lordship, introduc- 


j ing himself with a look and air of polite con- 
cern. 

“ No, my name’s Etherage,” said the invalid, 
mistaking — he fancied that Jos. Larkin, who 
was expounding his views of the accident grand- 
ly to Cleve Verney in the background, could not 
be less than a peer — “I live up there, at Hazel- 
den — devilish near being hilled here, by that lub- 
ber there. Why, I was running at the rate of 
five-and-twenty knots an hour, if I was making 
one ; and I remember it right well, sir, there’s a 
check down there, just before you come to the 
mill-stile, and the wall there ; and I’d have run 
my bows right into it, and not a bit the worse, 
sir, if that d — fellow had just kept out of the — 
the — king’s course, you know ; and egad, I don’t 
know now how it is — I suppose I’m smashed, sir.” 

“ I hope not, sir. I am Lord Verney — about 
it; and it would pain me extremely to learn 
that any serious injuries, or — or— things — had 
been sustained, about it.” 

“I’ll tell that in a moment,” said Doctor 
Lyster, who was of the party, briskly. 

So after a variety of twists and wrenches and 
pokes. Vane Etherage was pronounced sound 
and safe. * 

“ I don’t know how the devil I escaped !” ex- 
claimed the invalid. 

“ By tumbling on me — very simply,” replied 
Captain Shrapnell with a spirited laugh. 

“ You may set your mind at rest, Shrapnell,” 
said the doctor, walking up to him, with a con- 
gratulatory air. “ He’s all right, this time ; 
but you had better not mind giving the old fel- 
low any more rolls of that sort — the pitcher to 
the well, you know — and the next time might 
smash him.” 

“ I’m more concerned about smashing myself, 
thank you. The next time he may roll to the 
devil — and through whoever he pleases for me — 
knocked down with that blackguard old chair, 
and that great hulking fellow on top of me — .dl 
for trying to be of use, egad, when every one 
of you funked it — and not a soul asks about 
my bones, egad, or my neck either.” 

“ Oh ! come, Shrapnell, you’re not setting up 
for an old dog yet. There’s a difference be- 
tween you and Etherage,” said the doctor. 

“I hope so,” answered the captain sarcas- 
tically, “but civility is civility all the world 
over ; and I can tell you, another fellow would 
make fuss enough about the pain I’m suffering.” 

It was found, farther, that one wheel of the 
bath-chair was disorganized, and the smith must 
come from the town to get it to rights, and that 
Vane Etherage, who could as soon have walked 
up a rainbow as up the acclivity to Hazelden, 
must bivouac for a while where he sat. 

So there the visit was paid, and the exciting 
gala of that day closed, and the viscount and 
his party marched down, with many friends at- 
tendant, to the jetty, and embarked in the yacht 
for Ware. 


no 


THE TENaiNTS OF MALORY. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

REBECCA MERVYN READS HER LETTER. 

The evenings being short, the shops alight, 
and the good people of Cardyllian in their houses, 
Tom Sedley found the hour before dinner hang 
heavily on his hands. So he walked slowly up 
Castle Street, and saw Mr. Robson, the worthy 
post-master, standing, with his hands in his 
pockets, at the open door. 

“No letter for me, I dare say ?” asked Sedley. 

“No, sir — nothing.” 

‘ ‘ I don’t know how to kill the time. I wish 
my dinner was ready. You dined, like a wise 
man, at one o’clock, I dare say?’’ 

“We do — we dine early here, sir.” 

“ I know it ; a capital plan. I do it myself, 
whenever I make any stay here.” 

“ And you can eat a bit o’ something hearty 
at tea then.” 

“ To be sure ; that’s the good of it. I don’t 
know what to do with myself. I’ll take a walk 
round by Malory. Can I leave the Malory let- 
ters for you ?” 

“ You’re only joking, sir.” ^ 

“ I was not, upon my honor. I’d be glad to 
bolt your shutters, or to twig your steps — any 
thing to do. I literally don’t know what to do 
with myself.” 

“ There’s no family at Malory, you know, 
now, sir.” 

“ Oh ! I did not know ; I knew the other fam- 
ily had gone. No letters to be delivered then ?” 

“Well, sir, there zs — but you’re only joking?” 

“What is it ?” 

“A letter to Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn — but I 
would not think of troubling a gentleman with 
it.” 

“ Old Rebecca ; why I made her acquaint- 
ance among the shingles and cockles on the sea- 
shore last year — a charming old sea-nymph, or 
whatever you call it !” 

“We all have a great respect for Mrs. Mer- 
vyn, down here, in Cardyllian. The family has 
a great opinion of her, and they think a great 
deal of her, like ns,” said Mr. Rohson, who did 
not care to hear any mysterious names applied 
to her without a protest. 

“ Well — so I say — so have I. I’ll give her 
the letter, and take a receipt,” said Sedley, ex- 
tending his hand. 

“There really is a receipt, sir, wanting,” said 
the official, amused. “ It came this morning — 
and if you’ll come in — if it isn’t too much troub- 
le — I’ll show it to you, please, sir.” 

In he stepped to the post-office, where Mr. 
Robson showed him a letter which he had that 
afternoon received. It said — 

“ Sir: — I enclose five shillings, represented 
by postage-stamps, which will enable you to pay 
a messenger on whom you can depend, to deliv- 
er a letter which I place along with this in the 
post-office, into the hand of Mrs. Mervyn, Stew- 
ard’s House, Malory, Cardyllian, to whom it is 
addressed, and which is marked with the letter 


D at the left hand corner. I am, sir, your obt. 
servant, J. Dingwell.” 

“The letter is come,” said Mr. Robson, tak- 
ing it out of a pigeon-hole in a drawer, and 
thumbing it, and smiling on it with a gentle 
curiosity. 

“ Yes — that’s it,” said Tom Sedley, also read- 
ing the address. “‘Mrs. Mervyn’ — what a 
queer old ghost of a lady she is! — ‘Malory,’ 
that’s the ground — and the letter D in the cor- 
ner. Well, I’m quite serious. I’ll take the let- 
ter with pleasure, and see the old woman, and 
put it into her hand. I’m not joking, and I 
shall be back again, in a hour, I dare say, and 
I’ll tell you wdiat she says, and how she looks — 
that is, assuming it is a love-letter.” 

“Well, sir, as you wish it ; and it’s very kind 
of you, and the old lady must sign a receipt, for 
the letter’s registered — but it’s too much trouble 
for you, sir, isn’t it really ?” 

“Nonsense; give me the letter. If you 
won’t, I can’t help it.” 

“And this receipt should be signed.” 

“And the receipt also.” 

So away went our friend, duly furnished, and 
marched over the hill we know so well, that 
overhangs the sea, and down by the narrow old 
road to Malory, thinking of many things. 

The phantom of the beautiful lady of Malory 
was very much faded now. Even as he looked 
down on the old house and woodlands, the ro- 
mance came not again. It was just a remem- 
bered folly, like others, and excited or pained 
him little more. But a new trouble vexed him. 
How many of our blessings do we take for grant- 
ed, enjoy thanklessly, like our sight, our hearing, 
our health, and only appreciate when they are 
either withdrawn or in danger! 

Captain Shrapnell had written among his 
gossip some jocular tattle about Clove’s devotion 
to Miss Agnes Etlierage, which had moved him 
oddly and uncomfortably ; but the next letter 
disclosed the mystery of Clove’s clandestine vis- 
its to Malory, and turned his thoughts into a 
new channel. 

But here was all revived, and worse. Charity, 
watching with a woman’s eyes, and her opportu- 
nities, had made to him a confidence about 
which there could be no mistake ; and then Ag- 
nes was so changed — not a bit glad to see him ! 
And did not she look pretty? AVas there not a 
slight look of pride — a reserve — that was new — 
a little sadness — along with the heightened 
beauty of her face and figure? IIow on earth 
had he been so stupid as not to perceive how 
beautiful she was all this time? Cleve had 
more sense. By Jove, she was the prettiest girl 
in England, and that selfish fellow had laid him- 
self out to make her fond of him, and, having 
succeeded, jilted her. And now she would not 
care for any one but him. 

There was a time, he thought, when he, Tom 
Sedley, might have made her like him. AVhat 
a fool he was ! And that was past — unimproved 
— irrevocable — and now she never could. Girls 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


]11 


\ 

may affect those secoad likings, he thought, but 
they never really care after the first. It is 
pride, or pique, or friendship, or convenience — 
any thing but love. 

Love ! And what had he to do with love ? 
Who would marry him on four hundred a year, 
and no expectations ? And now he was going 
to tease himself because he had not stepped in 
before Cleve Verney and secured the affections 
of little Agnes. What a fool he was ! What 
business had he dreaming such dreams? He 
had • got on very well without falling in love 
with Agnes. Why should he begin now? If 
he found that folly gaining upon him, he would 
leave Cardyllian without staying his accustomed 
week, gnd never return till the feeling had died 
as completely as last year’s roses. 

Down the hill he marched in his new ro- 
mance, as he had done more than a year ago, 
over the same ground, in his old one, when in 
the moonlight, on the shingle, he had met the 
same old lady of whom he was now in quest. 

The old trees of I^Ialory rose up before him, 
dark and silent, higher and higher as he ap- 
proached. It was a black night — no moon ; 
even the stars obscured by black lines of cloud 
as he pushed open the gate, and entered the 
deeper darkness of the curving carriage-road 
that leads up through the trees. 

It was six o’clock now, and awfully dark. 
When he reached the open space before the hall 
door, he looked up at the dim front of the house, 
but no light glimmered there. The deep- 
mouthed dog in the stable-yard was yelling his 
challenge, and he farther startled the solitary 
woods by repeated double- knocks that boomed 
through the empty hall and chambers of the de- 
serted house. 

Despairing of an entrance at last, and not 
knowing which way to turn, he took the way by 
chance which led him to the front of the stew- 
ard’s house, from the diamond casement of 
which a light was shining. The door lay open; 
only the latch was closed, such being the primi- 
tive security that prevails in that region of pov- 
erty and quietude. 

With his stick he knocked a little tattoo, and 
a candle was held over the clumsy banister, and 
the little servant girl inquired in her clear 
Welsh accent what he wanted. 

So, preliminaries over, he mounted to that 
chamber in which Mr. Levi had been admitted 
to a conference among the delft and porcelain, 
stags, birds, officers, and huntsmen, wdio, in gay 
tints and old-fashioned style, occupied every 
coigne of vantage, and especially that central 
dresser, which mounted nearly to the beams of 
the ceiling. 

The room is not large, the recesses are deep, 
the timber-work is of clumsy oak, and the deco- 
rations of old-world tea-pots, jugs, and beasts of 
the field, and cocked-hatted gentlemen in gor- 
geous coloring and gilding, so very gay and 
splendid, reflecting the candle-light, and the 
wavering glare of the fire from a thousand 
curves and angles, and the old shining furniture 


and carved oak clock ; the room itself and all 
its properties so perfectly neat and tidy, not one 
grain of dust or single cobweb to be seen in any 
nook or crevice, that Tom Sedley -was delighted 
with the scene. 

What a delightful retreat, he thought, from 
the comfortless affectations of the world. Here 
was the ideal of snugness, and of brightness and 
warmth. It amounted to a kind of beauty that 
absolutely fascinated him. He looked kindly 
on the old lady who had laid down her knitting, 
and looked at him through a pair of round spec- 
tacles, and thought that he would like to adopt 
her for his housekeeper, and live a solitary life 
of lonely rabbit-shooting in Penruthyn Park, 
trout-fishing in the stream, and cruising in an 
imaginary yacht on the estuary and the contig- 
uous sea-board. 

This little plan, or rather vision, pictured it- 
self to Tom Sedley’s morbid and morose imag- 
ination as the most endurable form of life to 
which he could now aspire. 

The old lady, meanwhile, was looking at him 
with an expression of wonder and anxiety, and 
he said — 

“I hope, Mrs. Mervyn, I have not disturbed 
you much. It is not quite so late as it looks, 
and as the post-master, Mr. Robson, could not 
find a messenger, and I was going this way, I 
undertook to call and give you the letter, having 
once had the pleasure of making your acquaint- 
ance, although you do not, I’m afraid, recollect 
me.” 

‘‘ I knew it, the moment his face entered the 
room. It was the same face,” she repeated, as 
if she had seen a picture, not a face. 

‘‘Just under the walls of Malory ; you were 
anxious to learn wdi ether a sail was in sight, in 
the direction of Pendillion,” said he, suggest- 
ing. 

“No, there was none; it was not there. 
People — other people — would have tired of 
watching long ago ; my old eyes never dazzled, 
sir. And he came, so like, he came. I thought 
it was a spirit from the sea ; and here he is. 
There’s something in your voice, sir, and your 
face. It is wonderful ; but not a Verney — no, 
you told me so. They are cruel men — one -way 
or other they were all cruel, but some more than 
others — my God! much more. There’s some- 
thing in the eyes — the setting, the light — it 
can’t be mistaken; something in the curve of 
the chin, very pretty — but you’re no Verney, 
you told me — and see how he comes here a sec- 
ond time, smiling — and yet when he goes, it is 
like waking from a dream where they were, as 
they all used to look, long ago; and there’s a 
pain at my heart, for weeks after. It never 
can be again, sir ; I’m growing old. If it ever 
comes, it will find me so changed — or dead, I 
sometimes begin to think, and try to make up 
my mind. There’s a good world, you know, 
where we’ll all meet and be happy, no more 
parting or dying, sir. Yet I’d like to see him 
even once, here, just as he was, a beautiful mor- 
tal ; and sometimes, sir, I despair ; though I 


112 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


know, I know I ought not — God is so good ; and 
while there’s life there is hope.” 

“Certainly, hope, there’s always hope ; every 
one has something to vex them. I have, I 
know, Mrs. Mervyn ; and I was just thinking 
what a charming drawing-room this is, and how 
delightful it must be, the quiet and comfort, and 
glow of such a room. There is no drawing- 
room on earth I should like so well,” said good- 
natured Tom Sedley, whose sympathies were 
easy, and who liked saying a pleasant thing 
when he could. “ And this is the letter, and 
here is a printed receipt, which, when you have 
been so kind as to sign it, I’ve promised to give 
to my friend, Mr. Robson of the post-oflSce.” 

“ Thank you, sir ; this is registered, they call 
it. I had one a long time ago, with the same 
kind of green ribbon round it. Won’t you sit 
down while I sign this ?” 

“Many thanks,” said Sedley, sitting down 
gravely at the table, and looking so thoughtful, 
and somehow so much at home, that you might 
have fancied his dream of living in the steward’s 
house had long been accomplished, 

“I’d rather not get a letter, sir ; I don’t 
know the handwriting of this address, and a let- 
ter can but bring me sorrow. There is but one 
welcome chance which could befall me, and that 
I hope may come yet, just a /zo/je, sir. Some- 
times it brightens up, but it has been low all to- 
day.” 

“ Sorry you have been out of spirits, Mrs. 
Mervyn, I know what it is ; I’ve been so myself, 
and I am so, rather, just now,” said Tom, who 
was, in this homely seclusion, tending toward 
confidence. 

“There are now but two handwritings that 
I should know ; one is his, the other Lady Ver- 
ney’s; all the rest are dead; and this is nei- 
ther.” 

“Well, Mrs. Mervyn, if it does not come from 
either of the persons you care for, it yet may 
tell you news of them,” remarked Tom Sedley, 
sagely. 

‘ ‘ Hardly, sir. I hear every three months from 
Lady Verney. I heard on Tuesday last. Thank 
God, she’s well. No, it’s nothing concerning 
her, and I think it may be something bad. I 
am afraid of this letter.” 

“ I know the feeling, Mrs. Mervyn ; I’ve had 
it myself, when duns were troublesome. But 
you have nothing of the kind in this happy re- 
treat ; which I really do envy you from my 
heart. 

‘ ‘ Envy nothing. Happy retreat ! Little you 
know, sir. I have been for weeks and months 
at a time half wild with anguish, dreaming of 
the sea. How can he know ?” 

“ Very true, I can’t know ; I only speak of it 
as it strikes me at the moment. I fancy I 
should so like to live here, like a hermit, quite 
out of the persecutions of luck and the nonsense 
of the world.” 

“You are wonderfully like at times, sir — it is 
beautiful, it is frightful — when I moved the can- 
dle then — ” 


“I’ll sit any way you life best, Mrs. Mervyn, 
with pleasure, and you can move the candle, and 
try if it can amuse — no, I mean interest you.” 

If some of his town friends could have peeped 
in through a key-hole, and seen Tom Sedley and 
old Rebecca Mervyn seated at opposite sides of 
the table, in this very queer old room, so like 
Darby and Joan, it would have made matter for 
a comical story. 

“ Like a flash it comes !” 

Tom Sedley looked at the wild, large eyes 
that were watching him — the round spectacles 
now removed — across the table, and could not 
help smiling. 

“ Yes, the smile — it is the smile ! You told 
me, sir, your name was Sedley, not Verney.” 

“ My name is Thomas Sedley. My father 
was Captain Sedley, and served through a part 
of the Peninsular campaign. He was not twen- 
ty at the battle of Vittoria, and he was at Wa- 
terloo. My mother died a few months after I 
was born.” 

“ Was she a Verney?” 

“No; she was distantly connected, but her 
name was Melville,” said he. 

“ Connected. That accounts for it, per- 
haps.” 

“ Very likely.” 

“ And your father — dead?” she said, sadly. 

“Yes ; twenty years ago.” 

“ Was he related, sir, to the Verneys ?” 

‘ ‘ No, they were friends. He managed two of 
the estates after he left the army, and very well, 
I’m told.” 

“ Sedley — Thomas Sedley — I remember the 
name. We did not know the name of Sedley — 
except on one occasion — I was sent for, but it 
came to nothing. But I lived so much in the 
dark about things,” and she sighed. 

“ I forgot, Mrs. Mervyn, how late it it grow- 
ing, and how much too long I have stayed here 
admiring your pretty room, and I fear interrupt- 
ing you,” said Tom, suddenly remembering his 
dinner, and standing up — “If you kindly give 
me the receipt. I’ll leave it on my way back.” 

Mrs. Mervyn had clipped the silken cord, 
and was now reading the letter, and he might 
as well have addressed his little speech to the 
china shepherdess, with the straw disk and rib- 
bons on her head, in the bodice and short pet- 
ticoat of flowered brocade, leaning against a 
tree, with a lamb with its hind leg and tail 
broken off, looking affectionately in her face. 

‘ ‘ I can’t make it out, sir ; your eyes are 
young — perhaps you would read it to me — it is 
not very long.” 

“ Certainly, with pleasure” — and Tom Sed- 
ley sat down, and, spreading the letter on the 
table, under the candles, read as follows to the 
old lady opposite ; 

“ Private. 

“Madam: — As an old and intimate friend 
of your reputed husband, I take leave to inform 
you that he placed a sum of money in my 
hands for the use of your son and his, if he be 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


113 


still living. Should he be so, will you be so 
good as to let me know where it will reach him. 
A line to Jos. Larkin, Esq., at the Verney 
Arms, Cardyllian, or a verbal message, if you 
desire to see him, will suffice. Mr. Larkin is 
the solvent and religious attorney of the pres- 
ent Lord Verney, and you have my consent to 
advise with him on the subject. 

“ I have the honor to be, madam, your obe- 
dient servant, J. Ding well.” 

“P.S. — You are aware, I suppose, madam, 
that I am the witness who proved the death of 
the late Hon. Arthur Verney, who died of a 
low fever in Constantinople, in July twelve 
months.” 

^^Died! My God! Died! did you say 
died?'' 

“ Yes. I thought you knew. It was proved 
a year ago nearly. The elder brother of the 
present Lord Verney.” 

There followed a silence while you might 
count ten, and then came a long, wild, and bit- 
ter cry. 

The little girl started up, with white lips, and 
said, “Lord bless us!” The sparrows in the 
ivy about the windows fluttered — even Tom 
Sedley was chilled and pierced by that desolate 
scream. 

“I’m very sorry, really, I’m awfully sorry,” 
Tom exclaimed, finding himself, he knew not 
how, again on his feet, and gazing at the white, 
imploring face of the trembling old woman. 
“ I really did not know — I had not an idea you 
felt such an interest in any of the family. If 
I had known, I should have been more careful. 
I’m shocked at what I’ve done.” 

“Oh! Arthur — oh! Arthur. He’s gone — 
after all, after all — my darling will never come 
again — I waiting my whole life away, watching 
and hoping for you, my darling,” she sobbed 
wildly. “If we could have only met for a min- 
ute, just that I might tell you — but, oh ! you 
can’t hear, you’ll never know.” She was draw- 
ing back the window-curtain, looking toward 
the dark Pendillion and the starless sea — “He 
was beautiful, my darling, away by Pendillion. 
I watched his sail till it was out of sight — 
watching in the window, till it was quite out of 
sight — crying alone, till it grew dark. He 
thought he’d come again — he went smiling — 
and my heart misgave me. I said that day, 
crying alone, he’ll never come again. I’m 
never to see my beautiful Arthur any more — 
never — never — never. Oh, darling, darling, so 
far away. If I could even see his grave.” 

“I’m awfully sorry, ma’am; I wish I could 
be of any use,” said honest Tom Sedley, speak- 
ing very low and kindly, standing beside her, 
with, I think, tears in his eyes. “I wish so 
much, ma’am, you could employ me any way. 
I’d be so glad to be of any use, about your son, 
or to see that Mr. Larkin. I don’t like his 
face, ma’am, and would not advise your trusting 
him too much.” 

“ The little child’s dead, sir. It was a beau- 
H 


tiful little thing ; when it was ten weeks and 
two days old it died, the darling, and I have no 
one now.” 

“I’ll come to you and see you in the morn- 
ing,” said Tom. 

And he walked home in the dark, and stop- 
ped on the summit of the hill, looking down 
upon the twinkling lights of the town, and back 
again toward solemn Malory, thinking of what 
he had seen, and what an odd world it was. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

BY KAIL TO LONDON. 

About an hour later, Tom Sedley, in solitude, 
meditated thus — 

“ I wonder whether the Etherages” — (mean- 
ing pretty Miss Agnes) — “would think it a 
bore if I went up to see them. It’s too late for 
tea. I’m afraid they mightn’t like it. No one, 
of course, like Cleve now. They’d find me very 
dull, I dare say. I don’t care. I’ll walk up, and 
if I see the lights in the drawing-room windows. 
I’ll try.” 

He did walk up ; he did see the lights in the 
drawing-room windows ; and he did try, with 
the result of finding himself upon the drawing- 
room carpet a minute after, standing at the side 
of Agnes, and chatting to Miss Charity. 

“How is your father?” asked Tom, seeing 
the study untenanted. 

“Not at all well, I think ; he had an accident 
to-day. Didn’t you hear ?” 

“ Accident! No, I didn’t.” 

“Oh! yes. Somehow, when Lord Verney 
and the other people were coming up here to- 
day, he was going to meet them, and among 
them they overturned his bath-chair, and I don’t 
know really who’s to blame. Captain Shrapnell 
says he saved his life ; but, however it happened, 
he was upset and very much shaken. I see you 
laughing, Thomas Sedley! What on earth 
can you see in it to laugh at ? It’s so exactly 
like Agnes — she laughed! you did, indeed, Ag- 
nes, and if I had not seen it, with my own eyes, 
I could not have believed it ?” 

“ I knew papa was not hurt, and I could not 
help laughing, if you put me to death for it, and 
they say he drove over Lord Verney ’s foot.” 

“ That would not break my heart,” said Sed- 
ley. “ Did you hear the particulars from 
Cleve?” 

“No, I did not see Mr. Verney to speak to, 
since the accident,” said Miss Charity. “By 
the bye, who was the tall, good-looking girl, in 
the seal-skin coat, he was talking to all the way 
to the jetty ? I think she was Lady Wimble- 
don’s daughter.” 

‘ ‘ So she was ; has she rather large blue 
eyes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh! it must be she; that’s Miss Caroline 
Oldys. She’s such a joke; she’s elder than 
Cleve.” 


114 


THE TENANTS CE MALOliY. 


Oh ! that’s impossible ; she’s decidedly young- 
er than Mr. Cleve Verney, and, I think, extreme- 
ly pretty.” 

“Well, perhaps she is younger, and I do be- 
lieve she’s pretty ; but she’s a fool, and she has 
been awfully in love with him for I don’t know 
how many years — every one w^as laughing at it, 
two or three seasons ago ; she is such a muif !” 

“What do you mean by a muff?” demanded 
Charity. 

“Well, a goose, then. Lord Verney’s her 
guardian or trustee, or something ; and they say, 
that he and Lady Wimbledon had agreed to 
promote the affair. Just like them. She is 
such a scheming old woman ; and Lord Verney 
is such a — I was going to say, such a muff- 
hut he is such a spoon. Cleve’s wide awake, 
though, and I don’t think he’ll do that for them.” 

I believe there may have been, at one time, 
some little foundation in fact for the theory 
w’hich supposed the higher powers favorable to 
such a consummation. But time tests the value 
of such schemes, and it would seem that Lady 
Wimbledon had come to the conclusion that the 
speculation was a barren one: for, this night, 
in her dressing-gown, with her wig off, and a 
silken swathing about her bald head, she paid 
a very exciting visit to her daughter’s room, and 
blew her up in her own awful way, looking like 
an angry Turk, “ She wondered how any per- 
son with Caroline’s experience could be such an 
idiot as to let that young man go on making a 
fool of her. He had no other idea but the one 
of making u fool of her before the world. She, 
Lady Wimbledon, would have no more of any 
such insensate folly — her prospects should not 
be ruined, if she could prevent it, and prevent it 
she could and would — there should be an end of 
that odious nonsense ; and if she chose to make 
herself the laughing-stock of the world, she. 
Lady Wimbledon, would do her duty and take 
her down to Slominton, where they would be 
quiet enough at all events ; and Cleve Verney, 
she ventured to say, with a laugh, would not 
follow her.” 

The young lady was in tears, and blubbered 
in her romantic indignation till her eyes and 
nose were inflamed, and her mamma requested 
her to look in the glass, and see what a figure 
she had made of herself, and made her bathe 
her face for an hour, before she went to bed. 

There was no other young lady at Ware, and 
Cleve smiled in his own face, in his looking- 
glass, as he dressed for dinner. 

“ My uncle will lose no time — I did not in- 
tend this ; but I see very well what he means, 
he’ll be disappointed and grow suspicious, if I 
draw back ; and she has really nothing to rec- 
ommend her, poor Caroline, and he’ll find that 
out time enough, and meanwhile I shall get 
over some months quietly.” 

There was no great difficulty in seeing, in- 
deed, that the noble host distinguished Lady 
Wimbledon and her daughter. And Lord Ver- 
ney, leaning on Cleve’s arm, asked him lightly 
W’hat he thought of Miss Caroline Oldys,* and 


Cleve, who had the gift of presence of mind, 
rather praised the young lady. 

“ My uncle would prefer Ethel, when he sees 
a hope in that direction, I shan’t hear much 
more of Caroline, and so on — and we shall be 
growing older — and the chapter of accidents — 
and all that.” 

For a day or two Lord Verney Avas very en- 
couraging, and quite took an interest in the 
young lady, and showed her the house and the 
place, and unfolded all the plans which were 
about to grow into realities, and got Cleve to 
pull her across the lake, and walked round to 
meet them, and amused the young man by con- 
triving that little opportunity. But Lady Wim- 
bledon revealed something to Lord Verney, that 
evening, over their game of ecart^^ which affect- 
ed his views. 

Cleve was talking to the young lady, but he 
saw Lord Verney look once or twice, in the 
midst of a very serious conversation with Lady 
Wimbledon, at Caroline Oldys and himself, and 
now without smiling. 

It was Lady Wimbledon’s deal, but she did 
not deal, and her opponent seemed also to have 
forgotten the cards, and their heads inclined one 
toward the other as the talk proceeded. 

It was about the hour when ladies light their 
bedroom candles, and ascend. And Lady 
Wimbledon and Caroline Oldys had vanished 
in a few minutes more, and Cleve thought, 
“ She has told him something that has given 
him a new idea.” His uncle was rather silent 
and dry for the rest of that evening, but next 
morning seemed pretty much as usual, only 
Lord Verney took an opportunity of saying to 
him — 

“ I have been considering, and I have heard 
things, and, with reference to the subject of my 
conversation with you, in town, I think you 
ought to direct your thoughts to Ethel, about it 
— you ought to have money — don’t you see ? 
It’s very important — money — very well to be le 
fils de ses oeuvres, and that kind of thing ; but a 
little money does no harm ; on the contrary, it 
is very desirable. Other people keep that point 
in view ; I don’t sec wffiy we should not. I ask 
myself this question — How is it that people get 
on in the world ? And I answer — in great 
measure by amassing money ; and arguing from 
that, I think it desirable you should have some 
money to begin with, and I’ve endeavored to 
put it logically, about it, that you may see the 
drift of what I say.” And he made an excuse 
and sent Cleve up to town next day before him. 

I have been led into an episode by Miss Char- 
ity’s question about Miss Caroline Oldys ; and 
returning to Hazelden, I find Tom Sedley tak- 
ing his leave of the young ladies for the night, 
and setting out for the Verney Arms with a ci- 
gar between his lips. 

Next morning he walked down to Malory 
again, and saw old Rebecca, who seemed, in her 
odd way, comforted on seeing him, but spoke 
little — almost nothing, and he charged her to 
tell neither Din gw ell, of whom he had heard 


THE TENANTS OE MALOEY. 


115 


nothing but evil, nor Jos. Larkin, of whom he 
had intuitively a profound suspicion — any thing 
about her own history, or the fate of her child, 
but to observe the most cautious reserve in any 
communications they might seek to open with 
her. And having delivered this injunction in 
a great variety of language, he took his leave, 
and got home very early to his breakfast, and 
ran up to London, oddly enough, in the same 
carriage with Cleve Verney. 

Tom Sedley was angry with Cleve, I am 
afraid not upon any very high principle. If 
Cleve had trifled with the affections of Miss 
Caroline Oldys, I fear he would have borne the 
spectacle of her woes with considerable patience. 
But if the truth must be told, honest Tom Sed- 
ley was leaving Cardyllian in a pet. Anger, 
grief, jealousy, were seething in his good-na- 
tured heart. Agnes Etherage — his little Agnes 
— she had belonged to him as long as he could 
remember; she was gone, and he never knew 
how much he liked her until he had lost her. 

Gone ? No ; in his wanton cruelty this 
handsome outlaw had slain his pet deer — had 
shot his sweet bird dead, and there she lay in 
the sylvan solitude she had so beautified — dead; 
and he — heartless archer — went on his way 
smiling*, having darkened the world for harmless 
Tom Sedley. Could he like him ever again? 

Well, the world brooks no heroics now ; 
there are reserves. Men cultivate a thick skin 
— nature’s buff-coat — in which, with little pain 
and small loss of blood, the modern man-at- 
arms rides cheerily through life’s battle. When 
point or edge happen to go a little through, as 
I have said, there are reserves. There is no 
good in roaring, grinning, or cursing. The 
scatheless only laugh at you ; therefore wdpe 
away the blood quietly, and seem all you can 
like the rest. Better not to let them see even 
that. Is there not sometimes more of curiosi- 
ty than of sympathy in the scrutiny ? Don’t 
you even see, at times, just the suspicion of a 
smile on your friend’s face, as he prescribes wet 
brown paper or basilicon on a cobweb, accord- 
ing to his skill ? 

So Tom and Cleve talked a little — an ac- 
quaintance would have said, just as usual — and 
exchanged newspapers, and even laughed a little 
now and then ; but when at Shillingsworth the 
last interloper got out, and Tom and Cleve were 
left to themselves, the ruling idea asserted it- 
self, and Sedley looked luridly out of the win- 
dow, and grew silent for a time, and pretended 
not to hear Cleve when he asked him whether 
he had seen the report of Lord Verney ’s visit 
to Cardyllian, as displayed in the county paper 
of that day, which served to amuse him ex- 
tremely. 

“I don’t think,” said Tom Sedley at last, 
abruptly, “ that nice, pretty little creature, Ag- 
nes Etherage — the nicest little thing, by Jove, 
I think I ever saw — I say she is not looking 
well.” 

“ Is not she really ?” said Cleve, very coolly, 
cutting open a leaf in his magazine. 


“Didn’t you observe?” exclaimed Tom, 
rather fiercely. 

“ Well, no, I can’t say I did ; but you know 
them so much better than I,” answered Cleve ; 
“ it can’t be very much ; I dare say she’s well 
by this time.” 

“ How cam. you speak that way, Verney, 
knowing all you do ?” 

“Why, what do I know?” exclaimed Cleve, 
looking up in unaffected wonder. 

“You know all about it; why she’s out of 
spirits, why she’s looking so delicate, why she’s 
not like herself,” said Tom, impatiently. 

“ Upon my soul I do ko?,” said Cleve Verney, 
with animation. 

“ That’s odd, considering you’ve half broken 
her heart,” urged Tom. 

“I broken her heart?” repeated Cleve. 
“Now, really, Sedley, do pray think what 
you’re saying.” 

‘ ‘ I say I think you’ve broken her heart, and 
her sister thinks so too ; and it’s an awful 
shame,” insisted Tom, very grimly. 

“I really do think the people want to set me 
mad,” said Cleve, testily. “If any one says 
that I have ever done any thing that could 
have made any of that family, who are in their 
senses, fancy that I was in love with Miss Ag- 
nes Etherage, and that I wished her to suppose 
so, it is simply an untruth, I never did, and 
I don’t intend ; and I can’t see, for the life of 
me, Tom Sedley, what business it is of yours. 
But thus much I do say, upon my honor, it is 
a lie. Miss Charity Etherage, an old maid, 
with no more sense than a snipe, living in that 
barbarous desert, w'here if a man appears at all 
during eight months out of the twelve, he’s a 
prodigy, and if he walks up the street with a 
Cardyllian lady, he’s pronounced to be over 
head and ears in love, and of course meditating 
marriage — I say she’s not the most reliable critic 
in the world in an affair of that sort, and all I 
say is that I’ve given no grounds for any such 
idea, and I mean it, upon my honor as a gen- 
tleman ; and I’ve seldom been so astonished in 
my life before.” 

There was an air of frank and indignant re- 
pudiation in Cleve’s manner and countenance, 
which more even than his words convinced 
Tom Sedley, who certainly was aware how little 
the Cardyllian people knew of the world, and 
what an eminently simple maiden in all such 
matters the homely Miss Charity was. So 
Tom extended his hand and said — 

“ Well, Cleve, I’m so glad, and I beg your 
pardon, and I know you say truth, and pray 
shake hands ; but though you are not to blame 
— I’m now quite sure you’re not^the poor girl 
is very unhappy, and her sister very angry.” 

“ I can’t help that. How on earth can / help 
it ? I’m very sorry, though I’m not sure that I 
ought to care a farthing about other people’s 
nonsense, and huffs, and romances. I could 
tell you things about myself, lots of things 
you’d hardly believe — real, dreadful annoyances. 
I tell you, Tom, I hate the life I’m leading. 


116 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


You only see the upper surface, and hardly 
that. I’m worried to death, and only that I 
owe so much money, and can’t get away, I can 
tell you — I don’t care two pins whether you be- 
lieve it or not — I should have been feeding 
sheep in Australia a year ago.” 

“ Better where you are, Cleve.” 

‘‘How the devil do you know? Don’t be 
offended with me, Tom, only make allowances, 
and if I sometimes talk a bit like a Bedlamite, 
don’t repeat my ravings ; that’s all. Look at 
that windmill ; isn’t it pretty ?” 


CHAPTEE XLVIL 

LADY DORMINSTEK’S BALL. 

Cleve Vernet was in harness again — at- 
tending the House with remarkable punctuali- 
ty ; for the eye of the noble peer, his uncle, 
was upon him. He had the division lists regu- 
larly on his table, and if Cleve’s name was 
missing from any one of even moderate im- 
portance, his uncle took leave to ask an ex- 
planation. Cleve had also reasons of his own 
for working diligently at the drudgery of pub- 
lic life. His march was not upon solid ground, 
but over a quaking bog, every undulation and 
waver of which was answered by a qualm at his 
heart. 

Still it was only some nice management of 
time and persons ; it was a mere matter of 
presence of mind, of vigilance, of resource, to 
which he felt — at least hoped — he might be 
found equal, and all must end well. Was not 
his uncle sixty-six his last birthday ? People 
might flatter and say he looked nothing like it ; 
but the red book so pronounced, and there is no 
gainsaying that sublime record. After all his 
uncle was not an everlasting danger. Time 
and the hour will end the longest day ; and then 
must come the title, and estates, and a quiet 
heart at last. 

When the House did not interfere, Cleve 
was of course seen at all the proper places. 
On the night of which I am now speaking 
there was among others Lady Dorminster’s 
ball, and a brilliant muster of distinguished 
persons. 

On that crowded floor, in those celebrated 
saloons, in an atmosphere of light and music, 
in which moved so much of what is famous, 
distinguished, splendid, is seen the figure of 
Cleve Verney. Every one knew that slight 
and graceful figure, and the oval face, delicate 
features, and large, dark, dreamy eyes, that 
never failed to impress you with the same am- 
biguous feeling. It was Moorish, it was hand- 
some ; but there was a shadow there — some- 
thing secret and selfish, and smilingly, silently 
insolent. 

This session he had come out a little, and 
made two speeches of real promise. The min- 
isters had complimented his uncle upon them, 
and had also complimented him. The muse 


was there ; something original and above rou- 
tine — genius perhaps — and that passion for dis- 
tinction which breaks a poor man’s heart, and 
floats the rich to greatness. 

A man of Cleve’s years, with his position, 
with his promise, with London life and Paris 
life all learned by rote, courted and pursued, 
wary, contemptuous, sensual, clever, ambitious 
— is not young. The whole chaperon world, 
with its wiles, was an open book for him. For 
him, like the man in the German legend, the 
earth under which they mined and burrowed 
had gi'own to his eyes transparent, and he saw 
the gnomes at work. For him young ladies’ 
smiles were not light and magic — only marsh 
fires and tricks. To him old and young came 
up and simpered or fawned ; but they dimpled 
or ogled or grinned, all in the Palace of Truth. 
Truth is power, but not always pretty. For 
common men the surface is best ; all beyond 
that is knowledge — an acquisition of sorrow. 

Therefore, notwithstanding his years, the 
clear olive oval of his handsome face, the set- 
ting — void of line or color — of those deep dark 
eyes, so enthusiastic, yet so cold, the rich wave 
of his dark hair, and the smooth transparency 
of temples and forehead, and all the tints and 
signs of beautiful youth, Cleve Verney was well 
stricken in years of knowledge ; and of that sad 
gift he would not have surrendered an iota in ex- 
change for the charms and illusions of innocence, 
so much for the most part do men prefer power 
to happiness. 

‘ ‘ How d’ye do. Miss Oldys ?” said this bril- 
liant young man of actualities and expecta- 
tions. 

“ Oh, Mr. Verney, you here ?” 

This pretty Caroline Oldys was just five-and- 
twenty, and in her sixth London season. Old, 
like him, in the world’s dismal psychology, be- 
trayed into a transient surprise, smiling in gen- 
uine gladness, almost forgetting herself, and 
looking quite country-girlish in the momentary 
effusion. It is not safe affecting an emotion 
with men like Cleve, especially when it does not 
flatter them. He did not care a farthing 
whether she was surprised or not, or glad or sorry. 
But her very eye and gesture told him that she 
had marked him as he stood there, and had 
chosen the very seat on which her partner had 
placed her of malice-aforethought. Fine acting 
does it need to succeed with a critic like Cleve. 

“Yes, I here — and where’s the wonder?” 

“ Why — who was it ? — some one told me only 
half an hour ago, you were somewhere in 
France.” 

“ Well, if it was a man he told a story, and 
if a lady she made a mistake,” said Cleve cool- 
ly but tartly, looking steadily at her. “ And 
the truth is, I wanted a yacht, and I went down 
toj look at her, tried her, liked her, and bought 
her. Doesn’t it sound very like a marriage ?” 

Ethel laughed. 

“ That’s your theory — we’re all for sale, and 
handed over to the best bidder.” 

“Pretty valtz,”said Cleve, waving his slen- 


THE TEN^UnTS of MALORY. 


117 


der hand just the least in the world to the music. 
“ Pretty thing !” 

He did not use much ceremony with this 
young lady — his cousin in some remote way — 
who under the able direction of her mother, 
Lady Wimbledon, had once pursued him in a 
barefaced way for nearly three years, and who, 
though as we have seen, her mother had by 
this time quite despaired, yet liked him with all 
the romance that remained to her. 

“ And who are you going to marry, Caroline ? 
There’s Sedley — I see him over there. What 
do you say to Sedley T* 

“No, thanks — much obliged — but Sedley, you 
know, has seen his fate in that mysterious lady 
in Wales, or somewhere. I once had a letter 
from him.” 

“Oh! has he?” He signed to Sedley to 
come to them. 

Looking through the chinks and chasms that 
now and then opened in the distinguished mob 
of which he formed a unit, he occasionally saw 
the stiff figure and small features of his pomp- 
ous uncle. Lord Verney, who was talking affa- 
bly to Lady Wimbledon, whom he used to hate. 
Lord Verney did not wear his agreeable simper. 
He had that starch and dismal expression, rath- 
er, which came with grave subjects, and he was 
tapping the fingers of his right hand upon the 
back of his left, in time to the cadence of his 
periods, which he did when delivering matter 
particularly well worth hearing. It plainly did 
not displease Lady Wimbledon, whatever his 
discourse might be. “ I’m to be married to 
Caroline, I suppose. I wish that old woman 
was at the bottom of the Red Sea.” 

Cleve looked straight in the eyes of the Hon- 
orable Miss Oldys, and said he, with a smile, 
“Lady Wimbledon and my uncle are deep in 
some mystery — is it political? Have you an 
idea?” 

Caroline Oldys had given up blushing very 
long ago indeed ; but there was the confusion, 
without the tint of a blush in her face, as he 
said these words. 

“I dare say — mamma’s a great politician.” 

“Oh ! I know that. By Jove, my uncle’s 
looking this way. I hope he’s not coming.” 

“ Would you mind taking me to mamma?” 

“No — pray stay for a moment. Here’s 
Sedley.” 

And the young man, whom we know pretty 
well, with the bold blue eyes and golden mus- 
taches, and good frank handsome face, approach- 
ed smiling. 

“ How are you, Sedley ?” said Cleve, giving 
him two fingers. “ Caroline Oldys says you’ve 
had an adventure. Where was it ?” 

“ The lady in black, you know, in Wales,” 
reminded Miss Oldys. 

“ Oh ! to be sure,” said Sedley, laughing. 
“ A lady in gray, it was. I saw her twice. 
But that’s, more than a year old, and there has 
been nothing ever since.” 

“Do go on.” 

Sedley laughed. 


“It was at Cardyllian, in the church. She 
lived at Malory — that dark old place you went 
to see with the Verneys, the day you were at 
Cardyllian — don’t you remember ?” 

“ Oh, yes, what a romantic place !” 

“With an awfully cross old fellow, old enough 
to be her father, but with the air of her husband, 
guarding her like a dragon, and eyeing every 
follow that came near as if he’d knock him 
down ; a lean, white whiskered, bald old fellow, 
with bushy eyebrows, and a fierce face, and 
eyes jumping out of his head, and lame of one 
foot, too. Not a beauty by any means.” 

“Where did you see himV said Cleve. 

“ I did not see him — but Christmas Jones the 
boatman told me.” 

“ AVell, and which is your fate — which is to 
kill you — the husband or wife? ’’inquired Cleve, 
looking vaguely among the crowd. 

“ Oh, the wife, as he calls her, is really quite 
beautiful, melancholy and that, you know. I’d 
have found out all about them, but they left be- 
fore I had time to go back, but Verney was at 
Cardyllian, when I was there.” 

“ When was that ?” asked Cleve. 

“ I mean when these people w^ere at Malory. 
Cleve was much more gone about her than I 
was — at least so I’ve heard,” answered Sedley. 

‘ ‘ That’s very ungrateful of you, Sedley. I 
never interfered, upon my honor. I saw her 
once in church, and accompanied him in his 
pursuit at his earnest request, and I never saw 
her again. Are you.going on to the Halbury’s, 
Caroline*?” 

“Yes; are you?” 

“ No, quite used up. Haven’t slept since 
Wednesday night.” 

Here a partner came to claim Miss Caroline. 

“ I’ll go with you,” said Sedley. 

“ Very well,” answered Cleve, without look- 
ing back. “ Come to my lodgings, Sedley — 
we’ll smoke, shall we? I’ve some capital 
cigars.” 

“ I don’t care. I’m going on also.” 

“What a delicious night!” exclaimed Tom 
Sedley, looking up at the stars. “ Suppose we 
walk — it isn’t far.” 

“ I don’t care — let us walk,” said Cleve. 

So walk they did. It was not far to Cleve’s 
lodgings, in a street off Piccadilly. The young 
men had walked rather silently ; for, as it seem- 
ed to Sedley, his companion was not in a tem- 
per to talk a great deal, or very pleasantly. 

‘ ‘ And what about this gray woman ? Did 
the romance take fire where it ought ? Is it a 
mutual flame?” asked Cleve, like a tired man 
who feels he must say something, and does not 
care what. “ I don’t think you mentioned her 
since the day you showed me that Beatrice 
Cenci, over your (T — d chimney-piece.” 

“Of course I’d have told you if there had 
been any thing to tell,” said Tom. 

“ They haven’t been at Malory since ?” 

“Oh! no — frightened away — you’ll never 
see them there again. There’s nothing abso- 
lutely in it, and never was, not even an ad- 


118 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


venture,” continued Sedley. ‘ ‘ She’s a wonder- 
fully beautiful creature, though ; I wish you 
saw her again, Cleve. You’re such a clever 
fellow, you’d make a poem out of her, or some- 
thing — she’d bring you back to the days of chiv- 
alry, and that style of thing. I’m a sort of a 
fellow, you know, that feels a lot, and I think, 
I think some too ; but I haven’t the knack of 
saying it, or writing it — I’m not particularly good 
at any thing j but I went that morning, you know, 
into the refectory — you know — there are such a 
lot of stairs, and long places and doors, it makes 
a fellow quite foolish — and there she was — I 
wdsh I could describe her to you.” 

“Don’t try — you’ve tried so often — there’s a 
good fellow ; but just tell me what is her name ?” 
said Cleve, looking straight before him, above 
the lamps and the slanting slates and chimneys, 
into the deep sky, where brilliantly, spite of 
London smoke, shone the clear sad moon. 

“Her name? — I never found out, except 
Margaret — I don’t know ; but I believe they 
did not want their name told.” 

“ That did not look well — did it?” suggest- 
ed Cleve. 

“ Well, no more it generally does; but it is 
not her fault. It was — in fact it was — old Sir 
Booth Fanshawe, you know he’s broken — not 
worth a guinea — and always running about from 
place to place to avoid pursuit, in fact. It 
can’t signify, you know, now that I think of it, 
mentioning him, because, of course, he’s gone 
somewhere else long ago.” 

So said romantic little Sedley, and Cleve 
sneered. 

“I see you can tell a fib on occasion, Tom, 
like another man. So you found out the name, 
and knew it all the time you were protesting 
ignorance. And who told you that ? People 
here thought Sir Booth had gone to Italy.” 

“ Well, it was, but you mustn’t tell him I told 
you. There was a Jew fellow down at Malory, 
with a writ and a lot of fellows to nab him ; but 
the old fellow was oif ; and the Jew thinking 
that Wynne Williams knew where he was, 
came to his office and offered him a hatful of 
money to tell, and he was going to kick him 
out ; and that’s the w’ay he found out it was old 
Sir Booth ; and he is awfully afraid of getting 
into a scrape about it, if the old people heard 
who the tenant was.” 

“ So he would — the worst scrape he ever was 
in, with my uncle, at all events. And that d — d 
Larkin would get into the management of every 
thing I suppose. I hope you have not been 
telling every one?’’ 

“Not a soul — not a human being.” 

“There are some of the Cardyllian people 
that hardly come under that term ; and, by 
Jove, if you breathe it to one of them, it’s all 
over the town, and my uncle would be sure to 
hear it ; and poor Wynne Williams ! — ^yon’ll be 
the ruin of him very likely. ” 

“ I tell you, except to you, I swear to you, I 
haven’t mentioned it to a soul on earth,” ex- 
claimed Tom. I 


“Well, I do think, as a matter of conscience 
and fairness, you ought to hold your tongue, 
and keep faith with poor Wynne, ’’said Cleve 
udely, “and I think he was a monstrous fool 
to tell you. You know I’m interested,” contin- 
ued Cleve, perceiving that his vehemence sur- 
prised Tom Sedley; “because I have no 
faith in Larkin — I think him a sneak and a 
hypocrite, and a rogue — of course that’s in 
confidence, and he’s doing all in his power to 
get a fast hold upon my uncle, and to creep 
into Wynne Williams’s place, and a thing hke 
this, with a hard unreasonable fellow like my 
uncle, would give him such a lift as you can’t 
imagine.” 

“ But, I’m not going to tell ; unless yow tell, or 
he,\ don’t know who’s to tell it — I won’t, I know.” 
“And about Sir Booth — of course he’s not 
in England now — but neither is he in Italy,” 
said Tom. 

“It’s well he has you to keep his ‘ log’ for 
him,” said Cleve. 

“ He’s in France.” 

■ “Oh!” 

“Yes, in the north of France, somewhere 
near Caen,” said Tom Sedley. 

“ I wonder you let him go so near England. 
It seems rather perilous, doesn’t it ?” 

“ So one would think, but there he is. Tom 
Blackmore, of the Guards, you kno w him ?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Well, he saw old Fanshawe there. He 
happened to be on leave.” 

“ Old Fanshawe?” 

“No, Tom Blackmore. He likes poking 
into out-of-the-way places.” 

“I dare say.” 

‘ ‘ He has such a turn for the picturesque and 
all that, and draws very nicely.” 

“The long bow, I dare say.” 

“Well, no matter, he was there — Old Fan- 
shawe I mean — Blackmore saw him. He knows 
his appearance perfectly — used to hunt with his 
hounds, and that kind of thing, and often talk- 
ed to him, so he could not be mistaken — and 
there he was as large as life.” 

“Well ”? 

“ He did not know Tom a bit, and Tom ask- 
ed no questions— in fact he did not care to know 
where the poor old fellow hides himself — he 
prefered not— but Madam something or other 
— I forget her name — gave him a history, about 
as true as Jack the Giant-Killer, or the eccen- 
tric English gentleman, and told him that he 
had taken a great old house, and had his fami- 
ly there, and a most beautiful young wife, and 
was as jealous as fifty devils ; so you see Mar- 
garet must have been there. Of course that 
was she,” said Tom. 

“ And you said so to your friend Blackmore ?” 
suggested Cleve Verney. 

“ Yes,” said Tom, “ there was no harm in 
that. She’s not in danger of those d — d writs 
and things.” 

“It seems to me you want to have him 
caught.” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


119 


“Weil, I don’t see.” 

“ Why, saying that had just this advantage. 
That prating Guardsman was sure to talk of 
the matter when you gave him that subject, 
although he would probably never have thought 
again of having seen old Fanshawe, as you call 
Sir Booth, in France, if it had not been for 
that.” 

“ Well, I did not think — I hope not — and I 
did not know you took any [interest in him, ” 
said Sedley, quite innocently. 

“Interest! 1 — me! Interest, indeed! 
Why the devil should I take an interest in /Sir 
Booth Fanshawe ? Why, you seem to forget all 
the troubl eand annoyance he has cost me. In- 
terest, indeed ! Quite the contrary. Only, I 
think, one would not like to get any poor devil 
into worse trouble than he’s in, for no object, or 
to be supposed to be collecting information 
about him.” 

“ No one could suppose any thing like that 
of me, ’’said Tom Sedley. 

“ I beg your pardon ; they can suppose any 
thing of any body,” answered Cleve, and see- 
ing that Tom looked offended, he added, “and 
the more absurd and impossible, the more like- 
ly with some people. I wish you heard the 
tilings that have been said of me — enough to 
make your hair stand on end, by Jove !” 

“ Oh ! I dare say.” 

They were now turning into the street where 
Cleve had taken lodgings. 

“ I could not stand those fellows any longer. 
My uncle has filled the house with them — var- 
nish and paint and that stifling plaster— so I’ve 
put up here for a little time.” 

“ I like these streets. I’m not very far away 
from you here,” said Tom. “And talking of 
that affair at Caen, you know, he said, by Jove 
he did, that hesaw i/ow there.” 

“Who said?” 

“ Tom Blackmore of the Guards.” 

“ Then Tom Blackmore of the Guards /ies— 
that’s all. You may tell him I said so. I nev- 
er saw him — I never spoke to him — I don’t 
know him; and how should he know me? 
And if he did, I wasn’t there ; and if I had 
been, what the devil was it to him? So be- 
sides telling lies, he tells impertinent lies, and 
he ought to be kicked.” 

“Well, of course as you say so, he must 
have made a mistake ; but Caen is as open to 
you as to him, and there’s no harm in the place ; 
and he knows you by appearance. ” 

“ He knows svery body by appearance, it 
seems, and nobody knows him ; and, by Jove, 
he describes more like a bailiff than a Guards- 
man.” 

“ He’s a thorough gentleman in every idea, 
Tom Blackmore is as nice a little fellow as 
there is in the world,” battled Tom Sedley for 
his friend. 

“ Well, I wish you’d persuade that faultless 
gentleman to let me and my concerns alone. 
I have a reason in this case ; and I don’t mind 
if I tell you, I ims at Caen, and I suppose he 


did see me. But there was no romance in the 
matter, except the romance of the Stock Ex- 
change and a Jew; and I wish, Tom, you’d 
just consider me as much as you do the old bar- 
onet, for my own sake, that is, for /’wz pretty 
well dipt too, and don’t want every one to know 
when or where I go in quest of my Jews. I 
was not very far from that about four months 
ago ; and if you go about telling every one, by 
Jove my uncle will guess what brought me 
there, and old fellows don’t like post-obits on 
their own lives.” 

“ My dear Cleve, I had not a notion — ” 

“Well, all you can do for me now, having 
spread the report, is to say that I wasn H there 
— Fm serious. Here we are.” 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

A LARK. 

“There’s some ‘Old Tom,’ isn’t there? 
Get it, and glasses and cold water, Aere,” said 
Cleve to his servant, who, patient, polite, sleepy, 
awaited his master. “You used to like it — and 
here are cigars;” and he shook out a shower 
upon his drawing-room table cover. “ And 
where did you want to go at this time of 
night ?” 

“ To Wright’s, to see the end of the great 
game of billiards — Seller and Culverin, you 
know ; I’ve two pounds on it.” 

“Don’t care if I go with you, just now. 
What’s this? — When the devil did this come?” 
Cleve had picked up and at one pale glance 
read a little note that lay on the table; and then 
he repeated coolly enough — 

“ I say, when did this come?” 

“ Before one, sir, I think,” said Shepperd. 

“Get me my coat,” and Shepperd disap- 
peared. 

“Pestered to death about money,” he said, 
moodily. “ Upon my soul, I think if my uncle 
will make a statesman of me, he ought in con- 
science to enable me to live without selling my 
vote; see, you have got the things here, and ci- 
gars. I shan’t be five minutes away. If I’m 
longer, don’t wait for me; but finish this first.” 

Cleve had turned up the collar of his outer 
coat, and buttoned it across his chin, and pulled 
a sort of traveling cap down on his brows, and 
let the silk flaps cover his cheeks, and away he 
went. 

He did not come back in five minutes ; nor 
in ten, twenty, or forty minutes. The “Old 
Tom” in the bottle had run low ; Sedley looked 
at his watch ; he could wait no longer. 

When he got out upon the flagway, though 
not quite tipsy, he felt the agreeable stimulus of 
the curious “ Old Tom” sufficiently to render a 
little pause expedient for the purpose of calling 
to mind with clearness the geographical bear- 
ings of Wright’s billiard-rooms — whither ac- 
cordingly — eastward, along deserted and echo- 
ing streets, with here and there a policeman 
poking into an area, or sauntering along his 


120 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


two-mile-an-liour duty, march, and now and 
then regaled by the unearthly music of love-sick 
cats among the roofs. 

These streets and squares, among which he 
had in a manner lost himself, had in their day 
been the haunts and quarters of fashion, a fairy 
world, always migrating before the steady march 
of business. Sedley had quite lost his reckon- 
ing. If he had been content to go by Ludgate 
Hill, he would have been at Wright’s half an 
hour before. Sedley did not know these dingy 
and respectable old squares; he had not even 
seen a policeman for the last twenty minutes, and 
was just then quite of the Irish lawyer’s opinion 
that life is not long enough for short cuts. ^ 

In a silent street he passed a carriage stand- 
ing near a lamp. The driver on the flag way 
looked hard at him. Sedley was not a romantic 
being only ; he had also his waggish mood, and 
loved a lark when it came. He returned the 
fellow’s stare with a glance as significant, slack- 
ening his pace. 

“AVell?” said Sedley. 

“Well!” repliedHhe driver. 

“Capital!” answered Sedley. 

“Be you him?” demanded the driver, after 
a pause. 

“ No ; be you?'' answered Sedley. 

The driver seemed a little puzzled, and eyed 
Sedley doubtfully ; and Sedley looked into the 
carriage, which, however, was empty, and then 
at the house at whose rails it stood ; but it was 
dark from top to bottom. 

He had thoughts of stepping in and availing 
himself of the vehicle ; but seeing no particular 
fun in the procedure, and liking better to walk, 
he merely said, noddipg toward the carriage — 

“ Lots of room.” 

“Room enough, I dessay.” 

“How long do you mean to wait?” 

“As long as I’m paid for.” 

“ Give my love to your mother.” 

“ Feard she won’t vally it.” 

“Take care of yourself for my sake.” 

Doubtless there was a retort worthy of so 
sprightly a dialogue ; but Sedley could not hear 
distinctly as he paced on, looking up at the moon, 
and thinking how beautifully she used to shine, 
and was no doubt then shining, on the flashing 
blue sea at Cardy Ilian, and over the misty mount- 
ains. And he thought of his pretty cousin Ag- 
nes Etherage; and “ Yes,” said he within him- 
self, quickening his pace, “ if I win that two 
pounds at Wright’s, I’ll put two pounds to it, the 
two pounds I should have lost, that is — there’s 
nothing extravagant in that — and bring little 
Agnes something pretty j I said I would ; and 
though it was only joke, ^till it’s a promise.” 

Sedley was a good-natured fellow. Some 
tradesmen’s bills that morning had frightened 
him, and as he periodically did, he had bullied 
himself into resolutions of economy, out of which 
he ingeniously reasoned himself again. ‘ ‘ What 
shall it be ? I’ll look in to-morrow at Dymock 
& Rose’s — they have lots of charming little 
French trifles. Where the deuce are we now ?” 


He paused, and looking about him, and then 
down a stable-lane between two old-fashioned 
houses of handsome dimensions, he saw a fellow 
in a great-coat loitering slowly down it, and look- 
ing up vigilantly at the two or three windows in 
the side of the mansion. 

“ A robbery, by George !” thought Sedley, as 
he marked the prowling vigilance of the man, 
and his peculiar skulking gait. 

He had no sort of weapon about him, not even 
a stick ; but he is one of the best sparrers extant, 
of his weight, and thinks pluck and “a fistful 
of fives” well worth a revolver. 

Sedley hitched his shoulders, plucked off one 
glove that remained on, and followed him softly 
a few steps, dogging him down the lane, with 
that shrewd, stern glance which men exchange 
in the prize ring. But when on turning about 
the man in the surtout saw that he was obseiwed, 
he confirmed Sedley’s suspicions by first paus- 
ing irresolutely, and ultimately withdrawing 
suddenly round the angle. 

Sedley had not expected this tactique. For 
whatever purpose, the man had been plainly 
watching the house, and it was nearly three 
o’clock. Thoroughly blooded now for a “ lark,” 
Sedley followed swiftly to the corner, but could 
not see him ; so, as he returned, a low window 
in the side- wall opened, and a female voice said, 
“Are you there ?” 

“Yes,” replied Tom Sedley, confidentially 
drawing near. 

“Take this.” 

“All right” — and thereupon he received first 
a bag and then a box, each tolerably heavy. 

Sedley was amused. A mystification had set 
in ; a quiet robbery, and he the receiver. He 
thought of dropping the booty down the area of 
the respectable house round the corner, but just 
then the man in the surtout emerged from the 
wing, so to speak, and marching slowly up the 
perspective of the lane, seemed about to disturb 
him, but once more changed his mind and dis- 
appeared. 

“ What is to happen next ?” wondered Tom 
Sedley. In a few minutes a door which opens 
from the back yard or garden of the house fi’om 
which he had received his burden opened cau- 
tiously, and a woman in a black cloak stepped 
out, carrying another bag, a heavy one it also 
seemed, and beckoning to him, said, so soon as 
he was sufficiently near — 

“ Is the carriage come ?” 

“Yes’m,” answered Tom, touching his hat, 
and affecting as well as he could the ways of a 
porter or a cabman. 

“When they comes,” she resumed, “you’ll 
bring us to where it is, mind, and fetch the things 
with you — and mind ye, no noise nor talking, 
and walk as light as you can.” 

“All right,” said Tom, in the same whisper 
in which she spoke. 

It could not be a robbery — Tom had changed 
his mind ; there was an air of respectability 
about the servant that conflicted with that the- 
ory, and the discovery that the carriage was 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


121 


waiting to receive the party was also against it. 
Tom was growing more interested in his ad- 
venture ; and entering into the fuss and mystery 
of the plot. 

“Come round, please, and show me where 
the carriage stands,” said the woman, beckoning 
to Tom, who followed her round the corner. 

She waited for him, and laid her hand on his 
elbow, giving him a little jog by way of caution. 

“Hush — not a word above your breath, 
mind,” she whispered ; “ / see that’s it ; well, 
it needn’t come no nearer, mind.” 

“ All right, ma’am.” 

“And there’s the window,” she added in a 
still more cautious whisper, and pointing -with a 
nod and a frown at a window next the hall-door, 
through the shutter of which a dim light was 
visible. 

“ Ha !” breathed Tom, looking wise, “ and all 
safe there f' 

“ We’re never sure ; sometimes awake ; some- 
times not; sometimes quiet; sometimes quite 
wild-like ; and the window pushed open for 
hair ! Hoffle he is !*” 

“And al\^ays was,” hazarded Tom. 

“ Wuss now, though,” whispered she, shaking 
her head ruefully, and she returned round the 
angle of the house and entered the door through 
w^hich she had issued, and Tom set down his 
load not far from the same point. 

Before he had waited many minutes the same 
door re-opened, and two ladies, as he judged 
fhem to be from something in their air and 
dress, descended the steps together, followed by 
tlie maid carrying the black-leather bag as be- 
fore. They stopped just under the door, which 
the servant shut cautiously and locked ; and then 
these three female figures stood for a few sec- 
onds whispering together ; and after that they 
turned and walked up the lane toward Tom 
Sedley, who touched his hat as they approached, 
and lifted his load again. 

The two ladies were muffled in cloaks. 
The taller wore no hat or bonnet ; but had in- 
stead a shawl thrown over her head and shoul- 
ders, hood-wise. She walked, leaning upon the 
shorter lady, languidly, like a person very weak, 
or in pain, and the maid at the other side, placed 
her arm tenderly round her waist, under her 
mufflers, and aided her thus as she walked. 
They crossed the street at the end of the stable- 
lane, and walked at that side toward the car- 
riage. The maid signed to Tom, who carried 
his luggage quickly to its destination on the box, 
and was in time to open the carriage door. 

‘ ‘ Don’t you mind,” said the woman, putting 
Tom unceremoniously aside, and herself aiding 
•ithe taller lady into the old-fashioned carriage. 
As she prepared to mount, Tom for a moment 
fancied a recognition ; something in the contour 
of the figure, muffled as it was for a second struck 
him ; and at the same moment all seemed like 
a dream, and he stepped backward involuntarily 
in amazement. Had he not seen the same gest- 
ure. The arm moved backward, exactly so, and 
that slender hand in a gardening glove, holding 


a tiny trowel, under the dark transparent foliage 
of old trees ? 

The momentary gesture was gone. The lady 
leaning back, a muffled figure, in the corner of 
the carriage, silent. Her companion, who he 
thought looked sharply at him from within, 
now seated beside her ; and the maid also from 
her place inside, told him from the window — 

“ Bid him drive now where he knows, quick- 
ly,” and she pulled up the window. 

Tom was too much interested now to let the 
thread of his adventure go. So to the box be- 
side the driver he mounted, and ‘delivered the 
order he had just received. 

Away he drove swiftly, cityward through 
silent and empty streets. Tom quickly lost his 
bearings; the gas-lamps grew few and far be- 
tween ; he was among lanes and arches, and 
sober, melancholy streets, such as he had never 
suspected of an existence, in such a region. 

Here the driver turned suddenly up a narrow 
way between old brick walls, with tufts of dingy 
grass here and there at top, and the worn mor- 
tar lines overlaid with velvet moss. This short 
passage terminated in two tall brick piers, sur- 
mounted by worn and moss-grown urns of stone. 

Tom jumped down and pushed back the rusty 
iron gates, and they drove into an unlighted, 
melancholy court-yard ; and Tom thundered at 
a tall narrow hall-door, between chipped and 
worn pilasters of the same white stone, sur- 
mounted by some carved heraldry, half effaced. 

Standing on the summit of the steps he had 
to repeat his summons, till the cavernous old 
mansion jDealed again with the echo, before a 
light gave token of the approach of a living be- 
ing to give them greeting. 

Tom opened the carriage door, and let down 
the steps, perhaps a little clumsily, but he "was 
getting through his duties wonderfully. 

The party entered the spacious wainscoted 
hall, in which Avas an old wooden bench, on 
which, gladly, it seemed, the sick lady sat her- 
self down. A great carved door-way opened 
upon a square second hall or lobby, through 
which the ray of the single candle glanced 
duskily, and touched the massive banisters of a 
broad staircase. 

This must have been the house of a very 
great man in its day, a lord chancellor, per- 
haps, one of those Hogarthian mansions in which 
such men as my Lord Squanderfield might huA’-e 
lived in the first George’s days. 

“ How could any man liaA^e been such an idiot, ” 
thought Sedley, filled with momentary Avonder, 
“ as to build a palace like this in such a place ?” 

“Dear me! what a place — Avhat a strange 
place!” Avhispered the elder and shorter lady, 
“ Avhere are Ave to go ?” 

“ Up stairs, please’m,” said the Avoman with 
a brass candlestick in her hand. 

“ I hope there’s fire, and more light, and — 
and proper comfort there ?” 

“ Oh ! yes’m, please ; eA^erythink as you would 
like, please.” 

“ Come, dear,” said the old lady tenderly. 


122 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


giving her arm to the languid figure resting in 
the hall. 

So guided and lighted by the servant, they 
followed her up the great well staircase. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

A NEW VOICE. 

The ladies ascended, led by the maid with 
the candle, and closely follow'ed by their own 
servant, and our friend Tom Sedley brought up 
the rear, tugging the box and the bag with him. 

At the stair-head was a great gallery from 
which many doors opened. Tom Sedley halted 
close by the banister for orders, depositing his 
luggage beside him. The maid set the candle 
down upon a table, and opened one of these tall 
doors, through which he saw an angle of the 
apartment, a fire burning in the grate, and a 
pleasant splendor of candle-light ; he saw that 
the floor was carpeted, and the windows curtain- 
ed, and though there was disclosed but a corner 
of a large room, there were visible such pieces 
of furniture as indicated general comfort. 

In a large arm-chair, at the farther side of 
the fire-place, sat the lady who had thrilled him 
with a sudden remembrance. She had with- 
drawn the shawl that hung in hood-like fashion 
over her head, and there was no longer a doubt. 
The Beatrice Cenci was there — his Guido — very 
pale, dying he thought her, with her white hands 
clasped, and her beautiful eyes turned upward 
in an agony of prayer. 

The old lady, Miss Sheckleton, came near 
her, leaned over* her, kissed her tenderly, and 
caressingly smoothed her rich chestnut hair over 
her temples, and talked gently in her ear, and 
raised her hand in both hers, and kissed if, and 
drawing a chair close to hers, she sat by her, 
murmuring in her ear with a countenance of 
such kindness and compassion, that Tom Sedley 
loved her for it. 

Looking up, Miss Sheckleton observed the 
door open, and Tom fancied perceived him in 
the perspective through it, for she rose suddenly, 
shut it, and he saw no more. Tom had not dis- 
covered in the glance of the old lady any sign 
of recognition, and for the sake of appearances 
he had buttoned his gray wrapper close across 
his throat and breast so as to conceal the evi- 
dences of his ball costume ; his shining boots, 
however, were painfully conspicuous, but for 
that incongruity there was no help. 

And now the servant who had let them in 
told Tom to bring the box and bag into the serv- 
ants’ room, to which she led him across the 
gallery. 

There was a large fire, whieh "was pleasant, 
a piece of matting on the floor, a few kitchen 
utensils ranged near the fire-place, a deal table, 
and some common kitchen chairs. Dismal 
enough would the room have looked, notwith- 
standing its wainscoting, had it not been for the 
glow diffused by the fire. 


By this fire, on a kitchen chair, and upon his 
own opera hat, which he wished specially to sup- 
press, sat Tom Sedley, resolved to see his adven- 
ture one hour or so into futurity, before aban- 
doning it, and getting home to his bed, and in 
the mean time doing his best to act a servant, 
as he fancied such a functionary would appear 
in his moments of ease unbending in the kitchen 
or the servants’ hall. The maid who had re- 
ceived the visitors in the hall, Anne Evans by 
name, square, black-haired, slightly pitted with 
small-pox, and grave, came and sat down at the 
other side of the fire, and eyed Tom Sedley in 
silence. 

Now and then* Tom felt uncomfortably about 
his practical joke, which was degenerating into 
a deception. But an hour or so longer could 
not matter much ; and might he not make him- 
self really useful if the services of a messenger 
were required ? 

Anne Evans was considering him in silence, 
and he turned a little more toward the fire, and 
poked it, as he fancied a groom ■would poke a 
fire for his private comfort. 

“Are you servant to the ladies ?” at last she 
asked. 

Tom smiled at the generality of the question, 
but interpreting in good faith — 

“No,” said he, “I came with the carriage.” 

“Servant to the gentleman?” she asked. 

“What gentleman ?” 

“You know well.” 

Tom had not an idea, but could not well say 
so. He therefore poked the fire again, and 
said, “Go on, miss; I’m listening.” 

She did not go on, however, for some time, 
and then it was to say — 

“ My name is Anne Evans. What may your 
name be ?” 

“ Can’t tell that. I left my name at home,” 
said Tom, mysteriously. 

“Won’t tell?” 

“Can’t.” 

“I’m only by the month. Come in just a 
week to-morrow,” observed Anne Evans. 

“They'll not part you in a month. Miss Ev- 
ans. No; they has some taste and feelin’ 
among them. I wouldn’t wonder if you was 
here forever!” said Tom, with enthusiasm; 
‘ ‘ and what’s this place, miss — this house I mean 
— whose house is it ?” 

“ Can’t say, only I hear it’s bought for a brew- 
ery, to be took down next year.” 

“ Oh, criky !” said Tom ; “that’s a pity.” 

There was a short pause. 

“ I saw you ’ide your ’at,” said Anne Evans. 

“Not ’ide it,” said Tom — only sits on it — al- 
ways sits on my ’at.” 

Tom produced it, let it bounce up like a jack- 
in-a-box, and shut it down again. 

Miss Evans was neither amused nor surprised. 

“Them’s hopera ’ats — first quality — they 
used to come in boxes on ’em, as long as from 
here to you, when I w’as at jNIr. Potterton’s, the 
hatter. Them’s for gents — they air — and not 
for servants,” 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


123 


“The gov’nor gives me his old uns,” said 
Tom, producing the best fib he could find. 

“And them French boots,” she added, medi- 
tatively. 

“Perquisite likewise,” said Tom. 

Miss Anne Evans closed her eyes, and seem- 
ed disposed to take a short nap in her chair. 
But on a sudden she opened her eyes to say — 

“I think you're the gentleman himself.” 

“ The old gentleman ?” said Tom. 

“No. The young un.” 

“ I’m jest what I tell you, not objectin’ to the 
compliment all the same,” said Tom. 

“And a ring on your finger ?” 

“A ring on my finger — yes. I wear it two 
days in the week. My grand-uncle’s ring, who 
was a gentleman, being skipper of a coal brig.” 

“What’s the lady’s name?” 

“ Can’t tell, Miss Evans ; dussn’t.” 

“Fuss about nothin’!” said she, and closed 
her eyes again, and opened them in a minute 
more to add, “ but I think you’re him, and that’s 
my belief.” 

“ No, I ain’t, miss, as you’ll see by and by.” 

“Tisn’t nothin’ to me, only people is so 
close.” 

The door opened, and a tall woman in black, 
with a black net cap on, came quietly but quick- 
ly into the room. 

“You’re the man?” said she, with an air of 
authority, fixing her eyes askance on Tom. 

“Yes’m, please.” 

“Well, you don’t go on no account, for you’ll 
be wanted just now.” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Where’s the box and bag you’re in charge 
of?” 

“Out here,” said Tom. 

“Hish, man, quiet; don’t you know there's 
sickness ? Walk easy, canH you ? please^ con- 
sider.” 

Tom followed her almost on tiptoe to the 
spot where the parcels lay. 

“Gently now; into this room, please,” and 
she led the way into that sitting-room into which 
Tom Sedley had looked some little time since, 
from the stair-head. 

The beautiful young lady was gone, but Miss 
Sheckleton was standing at the farther door of 
the room with her hands clasped, and her ejes 
raised in prayer, and her pale cheeks wet wdth 
tears. 

Hearing the noise, she gently closed the door, 
and hastily drying her eyes, whispered, “ set 
them down pointing to a sofa, on which 

Tom placed them accordingly. “Thanks — 
that will do. You may go.” 

When Sedley had closed the door — 

“Oh, Mrs. Graver,” 'whispered Anne Sheckle- 
ton, clasping her wrists in her trembling fingers, 
“is she very ill ?” 

“ Well, ma’am, she is ill.” 

“But, oh, my God, you don’t think w’e are 
going to lose her ?” she whispered wildly, with 
her imploring gaze in the nurse’s eyes. 

“ Oh, no, pledse God, ma’am, it will all be 


right. You must not fuss yourself, ma’am. 
You must not let her see you like this, on no 
account.” 

“ Shall I send for him now ?” 

“ No, ma’am ; he’d only be in the way. Fll 
tell you when ; and his man’s here, ready to go, 
any minute. I must go back to her now, 
ma’am. Hish ! ” 

And Mrs. Graver disappeared with a little 
rustle of her dress, and no sound of steps. That 
solemn bird floated very noiselessly round sick- 
beds, and you only heard, as it were, the hover- 
ing of her wings. 

And then, in a minute more, in glided Miss 
Sheckleton, having dried her eyes very careful- 

ly. 

And now came a great knocking at the hall- 
door, echoing dully through the house. It was 
Doctor Grimshaw, who had just got his coat off 
and was winding his watch, when he was called 
from his own bedside by this summons, and so 
was here after a long day’s work, to make a new 
start, and await the dawn in this chamber of 
pain. 

In he came, and Miss Sheckleton felt -that 
light and hope entered the room with him. 
Florid, portly, genial, with a light, hopeful step, 
and a good, decided, cheery manner, he inspired 
confidence, and seemed to take command, not 
only of the case, but of the ailment itself. 

Miss Sheckleton knew this good doctor, and 
gladly shook his hand ; and he recognized her 
with a hesitating look that seemed to ask a 
question, but was not meant to do so. and he 
spoke cheerfully to the patient, and gave his 
directions to the nurse, and in about half an 
hour more told good Anne Sheckleton that she 
had better leave the patient. 

So, with the docility which an able physician 
inspires, good Anne Sheckleton obeyed, and in 
the next room — sometimes praying, sometimes 
standing and listening, sometimes wandering 
from point to point, in the merest restlessness 
— she waited and watched for more than an 
hour, which seemed to her longer than a whole 
night, and at last tapped very gently at the door, 
a lull having come for a time in the sick-cham- 
ber, and unable longer to endure her suspense. 

A little bit of the door was opened, and Anne 
Sheckleton saw the side of Mrs. Graver’s straight 
nose, and one of her wrinkled eyes, and her grim 
mouth. 

“How is she?” whispered Miss Sheckleton, 
feeling as if she was herself about to die. 

“Pretty well, ma’am,” answered the nurse, 
but -with an awTul look of insincerity, under 
which the old lady’s heart sank down and down, 
as if it had foundered. 

“ One word to Dr. Grimshaw,” she whisper- 
ed, with white lips. 

“ You can't, ma’am,” murmured the nurse 
sternly, and about to shut the door in her face. 

“Wait, ivait,” whispered the voice of kind 
old Doctor Grimshaw, and he came into the 
next room to Miss Sheckleton, closing the door 
after him. 


124 : 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


‘‘ Oh, doctor !” she gasped. 

“ Well, Miss Sheckleton, I hope she’ll do 
very well ; I’ve just given her something — a 
slight stimulant — and I’ve every confidence 
every thing will be well. Don’t make your- 
self uneasy ; it is not going on badly.” 

“ Oh, Doctor Grimshaw, shall I send for 
him ? He’d never forgive me ; and I promised 
her, darling Margaret, to send.” 

Don't send — on no account yet. Don’t 
bring him here — he’s better away. I’ll tell you 
when to send.” 

The doctor opened the door. 

‘‘Still quiet?” 

“ Yes, sir,” whispered Mrs. Graver. 

Again he closed the door. 

“Nice creature she seems. A relation of 
yours?” asked the doctor. 

“ My cousin.” 

“ When was she married ?” 

“ About a year ago.” 

“Never any tendency to consumption ?’* 

“ Never.” 

“Nothing to make her low or weak? Is 
she hysterical?” 

“No, hardly that, but nervous and excitable.” 

“I know; very good. I think she’ll do 
very nicely. If any thing goes the least wrong 
I’ll let you know. Now stay quiet in there.” 

And he shut the door, and she heard his step 
move softly over the next room floor, so great 
was the silence, and she knelt down and pray- 
ed as people have prayed in shipwrecks ; and 
more time passed, and more, slowly, very 
slowly. Oh, would the dawn ever come, and 
the day-light again ? 

Voices and moans she heard from the room. 
Again she prayed on her knees to the throne 
pf mercy, in the agony of her suspense, and 
now over the strange roofs spread the first 
faint gray of the coming dawn ; and there 
came a silence in the room, and on a sudden 
was heard a new tiny voice crying. 

“The little child !” cried old Anne Shecklc- 
ton, springing to her feet, with clasped hands, 
in the anguish of delight, and such a gush of 
tears as she looked up, thanking God, with her 
smiles, as comes only in such moments. 

Margaret’s clear voice faintly said something ; 
Anne could not hear what. 

“A boy,” answered the cheering voice of 
Doctor Grimshaw. 

“ Oh ! he’ll be so glad !” answered the faint 
clear voice in a kind of rapture. 

“Of course he will,” replied the same cheery 
voice. And another question came, too low 
for old Anne Sheckleton’s ears. 

“ A beautiful boy ! as fine a fellow as ever 
you could desire to look at. Bring him here, 
nurse.” 

“Oh! the darling!” said the same faint 
voice. “ I’m so happy'' 

“Thank God! thank God ! thank God!” 
sobbed delighted Anne Sheckleton, her cheeks 
still streaming in showers of tears as she stood 
waiting at the door for the moment of admis- 


sion, and hearing the sweet happy tones of 
Margaret’s voice sounding in her ears like the 
voice of one who had just now died, heard 
faintly through the door of heaven. 

For thus it has been, and thus to the end it 
will be — the “sorrow” of the curse is remem- 
bered no more, “for joy that a man is born 
into the world.” 


CHAPTER L. 

CLEVE COMES. 

Tom Sedley was dozing in his chair, by 
the fire, when he was roused by Mrs. Graver’s 
voice. 

“You’ll take this note at once, please, to 
your master ; there's a cab at the door, and the 
lady says you mustn’t make no delay.” 

It took some seconds to enable Tom to ac- 
count for the scene, the actor and his own place 
of repose, his costume, and the tenor of the 
strange woman’s language. In a little while, 
however, he recovered the context, and the odd 
passage in his life became intelligible. 

Still half asleep, Tom hurried down stairs, 
and in the hall, to his amazement, read the ad- 
dress, “ Cleve Verney, Esq.” At the hall- 
door steps he found a cab, into which he jump- 
ed, telling the man to drive to Cleve Verney ’s 
lodgings. 

There were expiring lights in the drawing- 
room, the blinds of which were up, and as the 
cab stopped at the steps a figure appeared at 
one, and Cleve Verney opened the window and 
told the driver, “ Don’t mind knocking. I’ll go 
down. ” 

“Come up stairs, ” said Cleve, addressing Sed- 
ley, and mistaking him for the person whom he 
had employed. 

Up ran Tom Sedley at his heels. 

“ Hollo ! what brings you here ?” said Cleve, 
when Tom appeared in the light of the candles. 
“You don’t mean to say the ball has been go- 
ing on till now — or is it a scrape ?” 

“Nothing — only this I’ve been commission- 
ed to give you,” and he placed Miss Sheckle- 
ton’s note in his hand. 

Cleve had looked wofully haggard and anx- 
ioi^ as Tom entered. But his countenance 
changed now to an ashy paleness, and there 
was no mistaking his extreme agitation. 

He opened the note — a very brief one it 
seemed — and read it. 

“ Thank God !” he said with a great sigh, 
and then he walked to the window and looked 
out, and returned again to the candles and read 
the note once more. 

“ How did you know I was up, Tom ?’’ 

“The lights in the windows.” 

“ Yes. Don’t let the cab go.” 

Cleve was getting on his coat, and speaking 
like a man in a dream. 

“ I say, Tom Sedley, how did you come by 
this note ?” he said, with a sudden pause, and 
holding Miss Sheckleton’s note in his fingers. 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


125 


“ Well, quite innocently,” hesitated Sedley. 

‘‘ How the devil was it, sir ? Come, you 
may as well. By heaven, Sedley, you shall 
tell me the truth !” 

Tom looked on his friend Cleve, and saw his 
eyes gleaming sharply on him, and his face 
white with a kind of terror. 

“ Of course I’ll tell you, Cleve,” said Tom, 
and with this exordium ho stumbled honestly 
through his story, which by no means quieted 
Cleve Verney. 

“You d — d little Paul Pry!” said he in an 
undertone very viciously through his teeth. 
“ Well, you have got hold of a secret now, like 
the man in the iron chest, and by, — you had 
better keep it.” 

A man who half blames himself already, and 
is in a position which he hates and condemns, 
will stand a great deal more of hard language, 
and even of execration, than he would under 
any other imaginable circumstances. 

“ You can’t blame me half as much as I do 
myself. I assure you, Cleve, I’m awfully sor- 
ry. It was the merest lark — at first — and then 
when I saw that beautiful — that young lady — ” 

“ Don’t dare to talk of that lady any more ; 
I’m her husband. There, you have it all, and 
if you whisper it to mortal you may ruin me ; 
but one or other of us shall die for it !” 

Cleve was talking in a state of positive exas- 
peration. 

“ Whisper it ! — tell it ! You don’t in the 
least understand me, Cleve,” said Tom, collect- 
ing himself, and growing a little lofty. “I 
don’t whisper or tell things ; and as for daring 
or not daring, I don’t know what you mean ; 
and I hope, if occasion for dying came, I should 
funk it as little as any other fellow.” 

“ I’m going to this d — d place now. I don’t 
much care what you do ; I almost wish you’d 
shoot me.” 

He struck his hand on the table, looking not 
at Tom Sedley, but with a haggard rage through 
the window, and away toward the cold, gray 
east ; and without another word to Sedley, he 
ran down, shutting the hall-door with a crash 
that showed more of his temper than of his 
prudence, and Tom saw him jump into the cab 
and drive away. 

The distance is really considerable, but in 
Cleve’ s intense reverie time and space contract- 
ed, and before he fancied they had accomplished 
half the way, he found himself at the tall door 
and stained pilasters and steps of the old red- 
brick house. 

Anne Evans, half awake, awaited his arrival 
on the steps. He ran lightly up the stairs ; 
and, in obedience to Mrs. Graver’s gesture of 
warning, as she met him with raised hand and 
her frowning “ Hish” at the head of the stairs, 
he checked his pace, and in a whisper he made 
his eager inquiries. She was going on very 
nicely. 

“ I must see Miss Sheckleton — the old lady — 
where is she ?” urged Cleve. 

“ Here, sir, please” — and Mrs. Graver opened 


a door, and he found tired Miss Sheckleton ty- 
ing on her bonnet, and getting her cloak about 
her. 

“Oh ! Cleve, dear” — she called him “ Cleve” 
now — “ I’m so delighted ; she’s doing very well ; 
the doctor’s quite pleased with her, and it’s a 
boy, Cleve, and — and I wish you joy with all 
my heart.” 

And as she spoke, the kind old lady was shak- 
ing both his hands, and smiling up into his hand- 
some face, like sunshine ; but that handsome 
face, though it smiled down darkly upon her, 
was, it seemed to her, strangely joyless, and even 
troubled. 

“And Cleve, dear, my dear Mr. Verney — 
I’m so sorry ; but I must go immediately. I 
make his chocolate in the morning, and he some- 
times calls for it at half past seven. This mis- 
erable attack that has kept him here, and the 
risk in which he is every day he stays in this 
town, it is so distracting. And if I should not 
be at home and ready to see him when he calls, 
he’d be sure to suspect something ; and I really 
see nothing but ruin from his temper and vio- 
lence to all of us, if he were to find out how it 
is. So good-bye, and God bless you. The 
doctor says he thinks you may see her in a very 
little time — half an hour or so — if you are very 
careful not to let her excite or agitate herself ; 
and — God bless you — I shall be back, for a little, 
in an hour or two.” 

So that kindly, fluttered, troubled, and happy 
old lady disappeared ; and Cleve was left again 
to his meditations. 

“Where’s the doctor?” asked Cleve of the 
servant. 

“ In the sitting-room, please, sir, writing ; his 
carriage is come, sir, please.” 

And thus saying, Mistress Anne Evans offi- 
ciously opened the door, and Cleve entered. 
The doctor, having written a prescription, and 
just laid down his pen, was pulling on his glove. 

Cleve had no idea that he was to see Doctor 
Grimshaw. Quite another physician, with whom 
he had no acquaintance, had been agreed upon 
between him and Miss Sheckleton. As it turn- 
ed out, however, that gentleman was now away 
upon an interesting visit to a noble lady, at a 
country mansion, and Doctor Grimshaw was 
thus unexpectedly summoned. 

Cleve was unpleasantly surprised, for he had 
already an acquaintance with that good man, 
whi^h he fancied was not recorded in his recol- 
lection to his credit. I think if the doctor’s 
eye had not been directed toward the door when 
he entered, that Cleve Verney would have drawn 
back ; but that would not do now. 

“ Doctor Grimshaw ?” said Cleve. 

“Yes, sir said the old gentleman. 

“ I think. Doctor Grimshaw, you know me ?” 

“ Oh, yes, sir; of course I do,” said the doc- 
tor, with an uncomfortable smile, ever so little 
bitter, and a slight bow; “Mr. Verney, yes.” 
And the doctor paused, looking toward him, 
pulling on his other glove, and expecting a ques- 
tion. 


126 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


“Your patient, Doctor Grimshaw, doing very 
well, Fm told?” 

‘ ‘ Nicely, sir — very nicely now. I was a little 
uncomfortable about her just at one time, but 
doing very well now ; and it’s a boy — a fine 
child. Good-morning, sir.” 

He had taken up his hat. 

“And, Doctor Grimshaw, just one word. 
May I beg, as a matter of professional honor, 
that this — all this, shall be held as strictly secret 
— every thing connected with it as strictly confi- 
dential ?” 

The doctor looked down on the carpet with a 
pained countenance. “^Certainly, sir, ” he said, 
dryly. “That’s all, I suppose? Of course, 
Mr. Yerney, I shan’t — since such I suppose to 
be the wish of all parties — mention the case.” 

“ Of all parties, certainly ; and it is in tender- 
ness to others, not to myself, that I make the re- 
quest.” 

“ I’m sorry it should be necessary, sir,” said 
Doctor Grimshaw, almost sternly. “I know 
Miss Sheckleton and her family ; this poor young 
lady, I understand, is a cousin of hers. I am 
sorry, sir, upon her account, that any mystery 
should be desirable.” 

“It is desirable, and, in fact, indispensable, 
sir,” said Cleve, a little stiffly, for he did not 
see what right that old doctor had to assume a 
lecturer’s tone toward him. 

“No one shall be compromised by me, sir,” 
said the doctor, with a sad and offended bow. 

And the doctor drove home pretty well tired 
out. I am afraid that Cleve did not very much 
care whom he might compromise, provided he 
himself were secure. But even from himself the 
utter selfishness, which toned a character pas- 
sionate and impetuous enough to simulate quite 
unconsciously the graces of magnanimity and 
tenderness, was hidden. 

Cleve fancied that the cares that preyed upon 
his spirits were for Margaret, and when he some- 
times almost regretted their marriage, that his 
remorse was altogether for her, all his caution 
and finesse were exacted by his devotion to the 
interests of his young wife, and the long system 
of mystery and deception, under which her proud, 
frank spirit was pining, was practiced solely for 
her advantage. 

So Cleve was in his own mind something of 
a hero — self-sacrificing, ready, if need be, to 
shake himself free, for sake of his love and his lib- 
erty, of all the intoxications and enervations of 
his English life, siwiifortis colonus, to delve the 
glebe of Canada or to shear the sheep of Aus- 
tralia. She was not conscious that all these 
•were the chimeras of insincerity, that ambition 
was the breath of his nostrils, and that his idol 
■was — himself. 

And if he mistakes himself, do not others 
mistake him also, and clothe him with the noble- 
ness of their own worship ? Can it be that the 
lights and the music and the incense that sur- 
round him are but the tributes of a beautiful 
superstition, and that the idol in the midst is 
cold and dumb ? 


Cleve, to do him justice, was moved on this 
occasion. He did — shall I say ? — yearn to be- 
hold her again. There was a revival of tender- 
ness, and he waited with a real impatience to 
see her. 

He did see her— just a little gleam of light in 
the darkened room ; he stood beside the bed, 
clasping that beautiful hand that God had com- 
mitted to his, smiling down in that beautiful face 
that smiled unutterable love up again into his 
own. 

“ Oh ! Cleve, darling — oh, Cleve ! I’m so 
happy. ” 

The languid hands are clasped on his, the 
yearning eyes, and the smile, look up. It is 
like the meeting of the beloved after shipwreck. 

“And look, Cleve;” and with just ever so 
little a motion of her hand she draws back a silk- 
en coverlet, and he sees in a deep sleep a little 
baby, and the beautiful smile of young maternity 
falls upon it like a blessing and a caress. “Isn’t 
it a darling ? Poor little thing ! how quietly it 
sleeps. I think it is the dearest little thing that 
ever was seen — our little baby !” 

Is there a prettier sight than the young moth- 
er smiling, in this the hour of her escape, upon 
the treasure she has found ? The wondrous 
gift, at sight of w’hich a new love springs up — 
never — never, while life remains, to cease its 
fiowing. Looking on such a sight in silence, I 
think I hear the feet of the angels round the bed 
—I think I see their beautiful eyes smiling on 
the face of the little mortal, and their blessed 
hands raised over the head of the fair young 
mother. 


CHAPTER LI. 

“ Teach me, ye grove?, some art to ease my pain. 
Some soft resentments that may leave no stain 
On her loved name, and then I will complain. ” 

Next day, after dinner, Lord Yerney said to 
Cleve, as they two sat alone, “I saw you at 
Lady Dorminster’s last night. I saw you — 
about it. It seems to me you go to too many 
places, with the House to attend to ; you stay 
too long — one can look in, you know. Some- 
times one meets a person ; I had a good deal 
of interesting conversation last night, for in- 
stance, with the French Ambassador. No one 
takes a hint better ; they are very good listen- 
ers, the French, and that is the wny they pick 
up so much information and opinion, and things. 
I had a cup of tea, and we talked — about it — for 
half an hour, until I had got my ideas well be- 
fore him. A very able man, a brilliant person, 
and seemed— he appeared to go with me — about 
it — and very well up upon our history — and 
things— and — and — looking at you, it struck me 
— you’re looking a good deal cut up, about it — 
and — and as if you were doing too much. And 
I said, you know, you were to look about, and 
see if there was any young person you liked — 
that was suitable — and — that kind of thing ; but 
you know you must not fatigue yourself, and I 
don’t want to hurry you ; only it is a step you 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


127 


ought to take with a view to strengthen your 
position — ultimately. And — and-/-I hear it is 
too late to consider about Ethm — that would 
have been very nice, it struck me ; but that is 
now out of the question, I understand — in fact, 
it is certain, although the world don’t know it 
yet ; and therefore we must consider some other 
alliance ; and I don’t see any very violent hurry. 
We must look about — and — and you’ll want 
some money, Cleve, when you have made up 
your mind.” 

“You are always too good,” said Cleve. 

“I — I mean with your wife — about it;” and 
Lord V erney coughed a little. ‘ ‘ There’s never 
any harm in a little money ; the more you get, 
the more you can do. I always was of that 
opinion. Knowledge is power, and money is 
power, though in different ways ; that was always 
my idea. What I want to impress on your 
mind, however, at this moment, particularly, is, 
that there is nothing very pressing as to time ; 
we can afford a little time. The Onslow motto, 
you know, it conveys it, and your mother was 
connected with the Onslows.” 

It would not be easy to describe how the 
words of his noble uncle relieved Cleve Verney. 
Every sentence seemed to lift a load from his 
burden, or to cut asunder some knot in the 
cordage of his bonds. He had not felt so much 
at ease since his hated conversation with Lord 
Verney in the library. 

Not very long after this, Cleve made the best 
speech by many degrees he had ever spoken, a 
really forcible reply upon a subject he had very 
carefully made up, of which, in fact, he was 
a master. His uncle was very much pleased, 
and gave his hearers to understand pretty dis- 
tinctly from what fountain he had drawn his in- 
spiration, and promised them better things still, 
now that he had got him fairly in harness, and 
had him into his library, and they put their 
heads together ; and he thought his talking with 
him a little did him no harm, Cleve’s voice was 
so good, he could make himself heard — you 
must bo able to reach their ears or you can hard- 
ly hope to make an impression ; and Lord Yer- 
ney’s physician insisted on his sparing his throat. 

So Lord Verney -was pleased. Cleve was 
Lord Verney’s throat, and the throat emitted 
good speeches, and every one knew where the 
head was. Not that Cleve was deficient ; but 
Cleve had very unusual advantages. 

Tom Sedley and Cleve were on rather odd 
terms now. Cleve kept up externally their old 
intimacy when they met. But he did not seek 
him out in thpse moods which used to call for 
honest Tom Sedley, when they ran down the 
river together to Greenwich, when Cleve was 
lazy, and wanted to hear the news, and say 
w'hat he liked, and escape from criticism of every 
kind, and enjoy himself indolently. 

For Verney now there was a sense of con- 
straint wherever Tom Sedley was. Even in 
Tom’s manner there was a shyness. Tom had 
learned a secret which he had not confided to 
him. He knew he was safe in Tom Sedley’s 


hands. Still he was in his power, and Sedley 
knew it, and that galled his pride, and made an 
estrangement. 

In the early May, “When winds are sweet 
though they unruly be, ” Tom Sedley came down 
again to Cardy Ilian. Miss Charity welcomed 
him with her accustomed emphasis upon the 
green. How very pretty Agnes looked. But 
how cold her ways had grown. 

He wished she was not so pretty — so heautiful 
in fact. It pained him, and somehow he had 
grown strange with her ; and she was changed, 
grave and silent rather, and, as it seemed, care- 
less quite whether he was there or not. Al- 
though he could never charge her with positive 
unkindness, much less with rudeness. He wish- 
ed she would be rude. He would have liked to 
upbraid her. But her gentle, careless cruelty 
was a torture that justified no complaint, and 
admitted no redress. 

He could talk volubly and pleasantly enough 
for hours with Charity, not caring a farthing 
whether he pleased her or not, and thinking only 
whether Agnes, who sat silent at her work, liked 
his stories and was amused by his fun ; and 
went away elated fora whole night and day be- 
cause a joke of his had made her laugh. Never 
had Tom felt more proud and triumphant in all 
his days. 

But when Charity left the room to see old 
Vane Etherage in the study, a strange silence 
fell upon Tom. You could hear each stitch of 
her tambour-work. You could hear Tom’s 
breathing. He fancied she might hear the 
beating of his heart. He was ashamed of liis 
silence. He could have been eloquent had he 
spoken from that loaded heart; But he dare 
not, and failing this he must be silent. 

By this time Tom was always thinking of 
Agnes Etherage, and wondering at the perver- 
sity of fiite. He was in love. He could not 
cheat himself into any evasion of that truth — a 
tyrant truth that had ruled him mercilessly ; 
and there was she pining for love of quite an- 
other, and bestowing upon him, who disdained 
it, all the treasure of her heart, while even a 
look would have been cherished with gratitude 
by Sedley. 

What was the good of his going up every 
day to Hazelden, Tom Sedley thought, to look 
at her, and talk to Charity, and laugh, and re- 
count entertaining gossip, and make jokes, and 
bo agreeable, with a heavy and strangely suffer- 
ing heart, and feel himself every day more and 
more in love with her, when he knew that the 
sound of Cleve’s footstep as he w^alked by, 
thinking of himself, w'ould move her heart 
more than all Tom Sedley, adoring her, could 
say in his life-time ? 

What a fool he was ! Before Cleve appeared 
she was fancy-free, no one else in the field, and 
his opportunities unlimited. He had lapsed 
his time, and occasion had spread its wings and 
flown. 

“What beautiful sunshine! What do you 
say to a walk on the green ?” said Tom to 


128 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


Charity, and listening for a word from Agnes. 
She raised her pretty eyes, and looked out, but 
said nothing. 

“Yes. I think it would be very nice; and 
there is no wind. What do you say, Ag- 
nes ?” 

“ I don’t know. I’m lazy to-day, I think, 
and I have this to finish,” said Agnes. 

“But you ought to take a walk, Agnes; it 
W’ould do you good, and Thomas Sedley and I 
are going for a walk on the green.” 

“Pray do,” pleaded Tom timidly. 

Agnes smiled and shook her head, looking 
out of the window, and, making no other an- 
swer, resumed her work. 

“You are very obstinate,” remarked Charity. 

“Yes, and lazy, like the donkeys on the 
green, where you are going ; but you don’t 
want me particularly — I mean you^ Charrie — 
and Mr. Sedley, I know, will excuse me, for I 
really feel that it would tire me to-day. It 
'svould tire me to death,” said Agnes, winding 
up with an emphasis. 

“Well, Til go and put on my things, and if 
you like to come you can come, and if you don’t 
you can stay where you are. But I wish you 
would not be a fool. It is a beautiful day, and 
nothing on earth to prevent you.” 

“I don’t like the idea of a walk to-day. I 
know I should feel tired immediately, and have 
to bring you back again, and I’ve really grown 
interested in this little bit of work, and I feel 
as if I must finish it to-day.” 

“ You are such a goose, Agnes,” said Chari- 
ty, marching out of the room. 

Tom remained there standing, his hat in his 
hands, looking out of the window — longing to 
speak, his heart being full, yet not knowing 
how to begin, or how to go on if he had begun. 

Agnes worked on diligently, and looked out 
from the window at her side over the shorn 
grass and flower-beds, through the old trees in 
the foreground — over the tops of the sloping 
forest, with the background of the grand 
Welsh mountains, and a glimpse of the estuary, 
here and there, seen through the leaves, stretch- 
ing in dim gold and gray. 

“ You like that particular window,” said 
Tom, making a wonderful effort; “I mean, 
why do you like always to sit there ?’’ He 
spoke in as careless a way as he could, looking 
still out of his window, which commanded a 
different view. 

“ This window ! oh, my frame stands here 
always, and when one is accustomed to a par- 
ticular place, it puts one out to change.” 

Then Agnes dropped her pretty eyes again 
to her worsted, and worked and hummed very 
faintly a little air, and Tom’s heart swelled 
within him, and he hummed as faintly the 
same gay air. 

“ I thought perhaps you liked that view ?” 
said Tom Sedley arresting the music. 

She looked out again — 

“ Well, it’s very pretty.” 

“The best from these windows; some peo- 


ple think, I believe, the prettiest view you 
have,” said Tom, gathering force, “the water 
is always so pretty.” 

“Yes, the water,” she assented listlessly. 

“ Quite a romantic view,” continued Sedley, 
a little bitterly. 

“Yes, every pretty view is romantic,” she 
acquiesced, looking out for a moment again. 
“ If one knew exactly what romantic means — 
it’s a word w’e use so often, and so vaguely.” 

“And can’t you define it, Agnes?” 

“Define it? I really don’t think I could.” 

“Well, that does surprise me.” 

“You are so much more clever than I, of 
course it does.” 

“No, quite the contrary; you are clever — 
I’m serious, I assure you — and I’m a dull fel- 
low, and I know it quite well — I can’t define 
it; but that doesn’t surprise me.” 

“Then we are both in the same case ; but I 
won’t allow its stupidity — the idea is not quite 
definable, and that is the real difficulty. You 
can’t describe the perfume of a violet, but you 
know it quite well, and I really think flowers a 
more interesting subject than romance.” 

“Oh, really! not, surely, than the romance 
of that view. It is so romantic!” 

“You seem quite in love with it,” said she, 
with a little laugh, and began again with a 
grave face to stitch in the glory of her saint in 
celestial yellow worsted. 

“The water — yes — and the old trees of 
Ware, and just that tower at the angle of the 
house.” 

Agnes just glanced through her window, but 
said nothing. 

“I think,” said Sedley, “if 7 were peopling 
this scene, you know, I should put my hero in 
that Castle of Ware — that is, if I could invent 
a romance, which, of course, I couldn’t.” He 
spoke with a meaning, I think. 

“ Why should there be heroes in romances ?” 
asked Miss Agnes, looking nevertheless toward 
Ware, with her hand and the needle resting 
idly upon the frame. “Don’t you think a 
romance ought to resemble reality a little ; and 
do you ever find such a monster as a hero in 
the world ? I don’t expect to see one, I know,” 
and she laughed again, but Tom thought, a lit- 
tle bitterly, and applied once more diligently to 
her work, and hummed a few bars of her little 
air again. 

And Tom, standing now in the middle of 
the room, leaning on the back of a chair, by 
way of looking still upon the landscape which 
they had been discussing, was jeally looking, 
unobserved, on her, and thinking that there 
was not in all the world so pretty a creature. 

Charity opened the door, equipped for the 
walk, and bearing an alpaca umbrella such as 
few gentlemen would like to walk with in May- 
fair. 

“ Well, you won’t come, I see. I think you 
are very obstinate. Come, .Thomas Sedley. 
Good-bye, Agnes ;” and with these words the 
worthy girl led forth my friend Tom, and as 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


129 


they passed the corner of the house, he saw 
Agnes standing in the window, looking out sad- 
ly, with her finger-tips against the pane. 

“She’s lonely, poor little thing!” thought 
he, with a pang. “Why wouldn’t she come ? 
Listlessness — apathy, I suppose. How selfish 
and odious any trifling with a girl’s affections 
is and then aloud to Charity, walking by her 
side, he continued, “you have not seen Cleve 
since the great day of Lord Verney’s visit, I 
suppose ?” 

“No, nothing of him, and don’t desire to 
see him. He has been the cause of a great 
deal of suffering, as you see, and I think he 
has behaved odiously. She’s very odd ; she 
doesn’t choose to confide in me. I don’t think 
it’s nice or kind of her, but, of course, it’s her 
own affair ; only this is plain to me, that she’ll 
never think of any one else now but Cleve 
Verney.” 

“It’s an awful pity,” said Tom Sedley, 
quite sincerely. 

They were walking down that steep and sol- 
itary road, by which Vane Etherage had made 
his memorable descent a few months since, 
now in deep shadow under the airy canopy of 
transparent leaves, and in total silence, except 
for the sounds, far below, of the little mill- 
stream struggling among the rocks. 

“ Don’t you know Mr. Cleve Verney pretty 
well?” 

“Intimately — that is, I did. I have not 
lately seen so much of him.” 

“And do you think, Thomas Sedley, that 
he will ever come forward ?” said blunt Miss 
Charity. 

“ Well, I happen to know that Cleve Verney 
has no idea of any thing of the kind. In fact, 
I should be deceiving you, if I did not say dis- 
tinctly that I know he won’t.” 

Tom was going to say he can't, but checked 
himself. However, I think he was not sorry 
to have an opportunity of testifying to this 
fact, and putting Cleve Verney quite out of the 
field of conjecture as a possible candidate. 

“Then I must say,” said Miss Charity, 
flushing brightly, “that Mr. Verney is a 
villain.” 

From this strong position Tom could not 
dislodge her, and finding that expostulation in- 
volved him in a risk of a similar classification, 
he abandoned Cleve to his fate. 

Up and down the green they walked until 
Miss Flood espied and arrested Charity Ether- 
age, and carried her off upon a visit of philan- 
thropy in her pony-carriage ; and so Tom Sed- 
ley transferred his charge to fussy, imperious 
Miss Flood ; and he felt strangely incensed 
with her, and walked the green, disappointed 
and bereft. Was not Cliarity Agnes’s sister ? 
While he walked with her he could talk of 
Agnes. He Avas still in the halo of Hazelden, 
and near Agnes. But now he was adrift in 
the dark. He sat down, looking toward the 
upland woods that indicated Hazelden, and 
sighed with a much more real pain than he 
I 


had ever sighed toward Malory ; and he 
thought evil of meddling Miss Flood, who had 
carried aAvay his companion. After a time he 
walked away toward Malory, intending a visit 
to his friend old Rebecca Mervyn, and thinking 
all the way of Agnes Etherage. 


CHAPTER LII. 

MRS. mervyn’ S DREAM. 

He found himself, in a little time, under 
the windows of the steward’s house. Old Re- 
becca Mervyn w^as seated on the bench beside 
the door plying her knitting-needles ; she 
raised her eyes on hearing his step. 

“ Ha, he’s come !” she said, lowering her 
hands to her knees, and fixing her dark Avild 
gaze upon him. “ I ought to have knoAvn it — 
so strange a dream must have had a meaning.” 

“ They sometimes have, ma’am, I believe ; I 
hope you are pretty well, Mrs. Mervyn.” 

“ No, sir, I am not Avell.” 

“Very sorry, very sorry, indeed, ma’am,’’ 
said Tom Sedley. “I’ve often thought this 
must be a very damp, unhealthy place — too 
much croAvded up with trees ; they say nothing 
is more trying to health. You’d be much bet- 
ter, I’m sure, anywhere else.” 

“Nowhere else ; my next moA’e shall be my 
last. I care not how soon, sir.” 

“Pray don’t give Avay to low spirits; you 
really mustn’t,” said Tom. 

“Tell me Avhat it is, sir; for I know you 
have come to tell me something.” 

‘ ‘ No, I assure you ; merely to ask you how 
you are, and whether I can be of any use.” 

“Oh! sir; what use? — no. 

“Do you wish me to give any message to 
that fellow Dingw^ell ? Pray make use of me 
in any Avay that strikes you. I hear he is on 
the point of leaAung England again.” 

“ I’m glad of it,” exclaimed the old lady. 
“Why do I say so? I’m glad of nothing; 
but I’m sure it is better. What business could 
he and Mr. Larkin and that Jew have with my 
child, who, thank God, is in heaven, and out of 
the reach of their hands, evil hands, I dare 
say.” 

“ So I rather think, also, ma’am ; and Mr. 
Larkin tried, did he ?” 

“Larkin; — yes, that was the name. He 
came here, sir, about the time I saw you ; and 
he talked a great deal about my poor little 
child. It is dead, you knoAv, but I did not tell 
him so. I promised Lady Verney I’d tell 
nothing to strangers — they all grow angry then. 
Mr. Larkin was angry, I think. But I do not 
speak — and you advised me to be silent — and 
though he said he Avas their laAvyer, I Avould 
not answer a AVord.” • 

“ I have no doubt you acted wisely, Mrs. 
Mervyn, you can not be too cautious in holding 
any communication AAutli such people.” 

“ I’d tell you, sir — if I dare ; but I’ve prom- 


130 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


ised, and I daren't. Till old Lady Verney’s 
gone, I daren’t. I know nothing of law-papers 
— my poor head ! How should I ? And she 
could not half understand them. So I prom- 
ised. You would understand them. Time 
enough — time enough.” 

‘ ‘ I should be only too happy — whenever you 
please,” said Tom. 

“ And, you, sir, have come to tell me some- 
thing ; what is it ?” 

“ I assure you I have nothing particularly to 
say; I merely called to inquire how you are.” 

“Nothing more needless, sir; how can a 
poor lonely old woman be, whose last hope has 
gone out and left her alone in the wilderness ? 
For twenty years — more, more than twenty — 
I have been watching, day and night ; and 
now, sir, I look at the sea no more. I will 
never see those headlands again. I sit here, 
sir, from day to day, thinking ; and, oh, dear, 
I wish it was all over.” 

‘ ‘ Any time you should want me, I should 
be only too happy, and this is my address.” 

“ And you have nothing to tell me?” 

“ No, ma’am, nothing more than I said.” 

“It was wonderful: I dreamed last night I 
was looking toward Pendillion, watching as I 
used ; the moon was above the mountain, and I 
was standing by the water, so that the sea came 
up to my feet, and I saw a speck of white far 
away, and something told me it was his sail at 
last, and nearer and nearer, very fast it came; 
and I walked out to meet it, in the shallow wa- 
ter, with my arms stretched to meet it, and 
when it came very near I saw it was Arthur 
himself coming upright in his shroud, his feet 
on the water, and with his feet, hands, and 
face as white as snow, and his arms stretched to 
meet mine ; and I felt I was going to die ; and 
I covered my eyes with my hands, praying to 
God to receive me, expecting his touch ; and I 
heard the rush of the water about his feet, and 
a voice — it was yours, not his — said, ‘ Look at 
me,’ and I did look, and saw you, and you 
looked like a man that had been drowned — 
your face as white as his, and your clothes drip- 
ping, and sand in your hair; and I stepped 
back, saying, ‘ My God ! how have you come 
here?’ and you said, ‘Listen, I have great 
new’s to tell you ;’ and I waked with a shock. 
I don’t believe in dreams more I believe than 
other people, but this troubles me still.” 

“Well, thank God, I have had^no accident 
by land or by water,” said Tom Sedley, smiling 
in spite of himself at the awful figure he cut in 
the old lady’s vision ; “ and I have no news to 
tell, and I think it will puzzle those Jews and 
lawyers to draw me into their business, what- 
ever it is. I don’t like that sort of people ; you 
need never be afraid of me, ma’am, I detest 
them.” 

“Afraid of you, sir! — Oh no. You have 
been very kind. See, this view here is under 
the branches ; you can’t see the water from this, 
only those dark paths in the wood ; and I walk 
round sometimes through that hollow and on 


by the low road toward Cardyllian in the even- 
ing, when no one is stirring, just to the ash-tree, 
from which you can see the old church and the 
church-yard ; and oh I sir, I wish I were lying 
there.” 

“ You must not be talking in that melancholy 
way, ma’am,” said Tom, kindly;” “ I’ll come 
and see you again if you allow me ; I think you 
are a great deal too lonely here ; you ought to 
go out in a boat, ma’am, and take a drive now 
and then, and just rattle about a little, and you 
can’t think how much good it would do you; 
and — I must go— and I hope I shall find you a 
great deal better when I come back” — and with 
these words he took his leave, and as he walked 
along that low narrow road that leads by the 
inland track to Cardyllian, of which old Rebecca 
Mervyn spoke, whom should he encounter but 
Miss -Charity coming down the hill at a brisk 
pace with Miss Flood, in that lady’s pony-car- 
riage. Smiling, hat in hand, he got himself 
well against the wall to let them pass ; but the 
ladies drew up, and Miss Charity had a message 
to send home, if he, Thomas Sedley, would be 
so good as to call at Jones’s they would find a 
messenger, merely to tell Agnes that she was 
going to dine with Miss Flood, and would not 
be home till seven o'clock. 

So Tom Sedley undertook it ; smiled and 
bowed his adieus, and then walked faster toward 
the town, and instead of walking direct to Mrs. 
Jones, sauntered for a while on the green, and 
bethought him what mistakes such messengers 
as Mrs. Jones could provide, sometimes make, 
and so resolved himself to be Miss Charity’s 
Mercury. 

Sedley felt happier, with an odd kind of ex- 
cited and unmeaning happiness, as he walked up 
the embowed steep toward Hazelden, than he 
had felt an hour or two before while \valking 
down it. When he reached the little flowery 
platform of closely mown grass, on which stands 
the pretty house of Hazelden, he closed the iron 
gate gently, and looked toward the drawing- 
room windows that reach the grass, and felt a 
foolish flutter at his heart as he saw that the 
frame stood in Agnes’s window without its mis- 
tress. 

“ Reading, now, I suppose,” whispered Tom, 
as if he feared to disturb her. ‘ ‘ She has changed 
her place, and she is reading ;” and he began to 
speculate whether she sat on the ottoman or on 
the sofa, or in the cushioned arm-chair, with her 
novel in her hands. But his sidelong glances 
could not penetrate the panes, which returned 
only reflections of the sky or black shadow, ex- 
cepting of the one object, the deserted frame 
which stood close to their surface. 

There was a time, not long ago either, when 
Tom Sedley would have run across the grass to 
the drawing-room windows, and had he seen 
Agnes within would have made a semi-burgla- 
rious entry through one of them. But there 
had come of late, on a sudden, a sort of formal- 
ity in his relations with Agnes; and so he 
walked round by the hall-door, and found the 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


131 


drawing-rooms empty, and touching the bell, 
learned that Miss Agnes had gone out for a 
walk. 

“ Fve a message to give her from Miss Chari- 
ty ; have you any idea which way she went ?” 

He found himself making excuse to the serv- 
ant for his inquiry. A short time since he 
would have asked quite frankly where she w'as, 
without dreaming of a reason ; but now had 
grown, as I say, a reserve, which has always the 
more harmless incidents of guilt. He was ap- 
prehensive of suspicion ; he was shy even of this 
old servant, and was encountering this inquiry 
by an explanation of his motives. 

“I saw her go by the beech walk, sir,” said 
the man. 

‘‘ Oh ! thanks ; very good.” 

And he crossed the grass, and entered the 
beech walk, which is broad and straight, with 
towering files of beech at each side, and a thick 
screen of underwood and evergreens, and turn- 
ing the screen of rhodendrons at the entrance 
of the walk, he found himself quite close to Ag- 
nes, who was walking toward him. 

She stopped. He fancied she changed color ; 
had she mistaken him for some one else ? 

“ Well, Agnes, I see the sun and the flowers 
prevailed, though we couldn’t ; and I am glad, 
at all events, that you have had a little walk.” 

“ Oh ! yes, after all, I really couldn’t resist*; 
and is Charity coming?” 

“ No, you are not to expect her till tea-time. 
She’s gone with Miss Flood somewhere, and she 
sent me to tell you.” 

“Oh I thanks:” and Agnes hesitated, look- 
ing toward home, as if she intended returning. 

“You may as well walk once more up and 
down; it does look so jolly; doesn’t it?” said 
Tom ; ‘ ‘ pray do, Agnes. ” 

“Well, yes, once more, I will ; but that is all, 
for I really am a little tired.” 

They set out in silence, and Tom, with a 
great effort, said — 

“ I wonder, Agnes, you seem so cold, I mean 
so unfriendly with me, I think you do ; and you 
must be quite aware of it; you must, indeed, 
Agnes. I think if you knew half the pain you 
are giving me — I really do — that you wouldn’t.” 

The speech \vas very inartificial, but it had 
the merit of going direct to the point, and Miss 
Agnes began — 

“ I haven’t been at all unfriendly.” 

“Oh! but you have — indeed you have — ^you 
are quite changed. And I don’t know what I 
have done — I wish you’d tell me — to deserve it ; 
because — even if there was — another — any thing 
— no matter -what — I’m an old friend, and I 
think it’s very unkind ; you don’t perceive it, 
perhaps, but you are aw'fully changed.” 

Agnes laughed a very little, and she answered,, 
looking down on the walk before her, as Sedley 
thought, with a very pretty blush, and I believe 
there was — ■ 

“It is a very serious accusation, and I don’t 
deserve it. No, indeed, and even if it were true, 
it rather surprises me that it should in the least 


interest you; because we down here have seen 
so little of you that we might very reasonably 
suspect that you had begun to forget us.” 

“ Well, I have been an awful fool, it is quite 
true, and you have punished me, not more than 
I deserve ; but I think you might have remem- 
bered that you had not on earth a better friend 
— I mean a more earnest one — particularly you, 
Agnes, than I.” 

“I really don’t know what I have done,” 
pleaded she, with another little laugh. 

“I was here, you know, as intimate almost 
as a brother. I don’t say, of course, there are 
not many things that I had no right to expect 
to hear any thing about ; but if I had, and been 
thought worthy of confidence, I would at all 
events have spoken honestly. But — rhay I 
speak quite frankly, Agnes ? — ycm. won’t be of- 
fended, will you ?” 

“No ; I shan’t — I’m quite sure.” 

“Well, it was only this — you are changed, 
Agnes, you know you are. Just this moment, 
for instance, you were going home, only because 
I came here, and you fancied I might join you 
in your walk ; and this change began when 
Cleve Verney was down here staying at Ware, 
and used to walk with you on the green.” 

Agnes stopped short at these words, and drew 
back a step, looking at Sedley with an angry 
surprise. 

‘ ‘ I don’t understand you — I’m certain I don’t. 
I can’t conceive w'hat you mean,” she said. 

Sedley paused in equal surprise. 

“ I — I beg pardon ; I’m awfully sorry — you’ll 
never know Tiow sorry — if I have said any thing 
to vex you ; but I did think it was some influ- 
ence, or something connected ■with that time.” 

“I really don’t pretend to understand you,” 
said Agnes, coldly, with eyes, however, that 
gleamed resentfully. “I do recollect perfectly 
Mr. Cleve Verney’s walking half a dozen times 
with Charity and me upon the green, but what 
that can possibly have to do with your fancied 
WTongs, I can not imagine; I fancied you were a 
friend of Mr. Verney’s.” 

“ So I was — so I am ; but no such friend as 
I am of yours — your friend, Agnes. There’s no 
use in saying it ; but, Agnes, I’d die for you — I 
would indeed.” 

“I’m not likely to ask you, Mr. Sedley; but 
I thought it very strange, your coming so very 
seldom to inquire for papa, when he was so 
poorly last year, when you were at Cardyllian. 
He did not seem to mind it ; but considering as 
you say how much you once used to be here, it 
did strike me as very rude — I may as well say 
what I really thought — not only unkind but 
rude. So that if there has been any change, you 
need not look to other people for the cause of 
it.” 

“If you knew how I blame myself for that, I 
think, bad as it was, you’d forgive me.” 

‘ ‘ I think it showed that you did not very 
much care what bdcame of us.” 

“Oh! Agnes, you did not think that — you 
never thought it. Unless yow are happy, I can't 


132 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


be happy, nor even then unless I think you have 
forgiven me ; and I think if I could be sure you 
liked me ever so little, even in the old way, I 
should be one of the happiest people in the 
world. I don’t make any excuses — I was the 
stupidest fool on earth — I only throw myself on 
your mercy, and ask you to forgive me.” 

“I’ve nothing to forgive,” said Agnes, with 
a cruel little laugh. 

“Well, well — forget — oh, do! and shake 
hands like your old self. You have no idea how 
miserable I have been.” 

With a very beautiful blush and a smile — a 
little shy, and so gratified — and a little silvery 
laugh, Agnes relented, and did give her hand to 
Tom Sedley. 

“ Qh, Agnes ! Oh, Agnes ! I’m so happy and 
so grateful ! Oh, Agnes, you won’t take it away 
— -just for a moment.” 

She plucked her hand to remove it, for Tom 
was exceeding his privilege, and kissing it. 

“ Now we are friends,” said Agnes, laughing. 

“Are we quite friends ?” 

“ Yes, quite.” 

“You must not take your hand away — one 
moment more. Oh, Agnes, I can never tell you 
— never how I love you. You are my darling, 
Agnes, and I can’t live without you.” 

Agnes said something — was it reproof or 
repulse? He only knew that the tones were 
sad and gentle, and that she was drawing her 
hand away. 

“ Oh, darling, I adore you ! You would not 
make me miserable for life. There is nothing 
I won’t do — nothing I won’t try — if you’ll only 
say you like me — ever so little. Do sit down 
here, just for a moment” — there was a rustic 
seat beside them — “only for a moment.” 

She did sit down, and he beside her. That 
“ moment” of Tom Sedley’s grew as such mo- 
ments will, like the bean that Jack sowed in his 
garden, till it reached Titantia knows whither. 

I know that Miss Charity on her return sur- 
prised it still growing. 

“ I made the tea, Agnes, fancying you were 
in your room. I’ve had such a search for you. 

I really think you might have told Edward 
where you were going. Will you drink tea 
with us, Thomas Sedley, this evening ? though 
I am afraid you’ll find it perfectly cold.” 

If Miss Charity had been either suspicious or 
romantic she would have seen by a glance at 
the young people’s faces what had happened; 
but being neither, and quite pre-occupied with 
her theory about Cleve Verney, and having 
never dreamed of Tom Sedley as possibly making 
his dehut at Hazelden in the character of a 
lover — she brought her prisoners home, with 
only a vague sense now and then that there was 
cither something a little odd in their manner or 
in her own perceptions, and she remarked, 
looking a little curiously at Tom, in reference 
to some query of hers — 

“I’ve asked you that question twice without 
an answer, and now you say something totally 
unmeaning !” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

“Will you tell her?” whispered Sedley to 
Agnes. 

“ Oh, no. Do youf she entreated. 

They both looked at Charity, who was pre- 
paring the little dog’s supper of bread and milk, 
in a saucer. 

“ I’ll go in and see papa, and you shall speak 
to her,” said Agnes. 

Which Tom Sedley did, so much to her amaze- 
ment that she set the saucer down on the table 
beside her, and listened, and conversed for half 
an hour, and the poodle’s screams, and wild 
jumping and clawing at her elbow, at last re- 
minded her that he had been quite forgotten. 

So while its mistress was apologizing earnest- 
ly to poor Bijou, and superintending his atten- 
tions to the bread and milk now placed upon 
the floor, in came Agnes, and up got Charity, 
and kissed her with a frank beaming smile, and 
said — 

“I’m excessively glad, Agnes. I was always 
so fond of Thomas Sedley; and I wonder we 
never thought of it before. 

They were all holding hands in a ring by this 
time. 

“And what do you think Mr. Etherage will 
say?” inquired Tom. 

“Papa! why of course he will be delighted f 
said Miss Charity. “He likes you extremely ^ 

“ But ygu know, Agnes might do so much 
better. She’s such a treasure, there’s no one 
that would not be proud of her, and no one 
could help falling in love with her, and the 
Ad — I mean Mr. Etherage, may think me so 
presumptuous, and, you know, he may think me 
quite, too poor.” 

“If you mean to say that papa would object 
to you because you have only four hundred a 
year, you think most meanly of him. I know I 
should not like to be connected with any body 
that I thought so meanly of, because that kind 
of thing I look upon as really wicked; and I 
should be sorry to think papa was wicked. I’ll 
go in and tell him all that has happened this 
moment.” 

In an awful suspense, pretty Agnes and Tom 
Sedley, with her hand in both his, stood side 
by side, looking earnestly at the double door 
which separated them from this conference. 

In a few minutes they heard Vane Etherage’s 
voice raised to a pitch of testy bluster, and then 
Miss Charity’s rejoinder with shrill emphasis. 

“Oh! gracious goodness! he’s very angry. 
What shall we do ?” exclaimed poor little Ag- 
nes, in wild helplessness. 

“I knew it — I knew it — I said how it would 
be — he can’t endure the idea, he thinks it such 
audacity. I knew he must, and I really think I 
shall lose my reason. I could not — I coxdd not 
live. Oh ! Agnes, I couldn't if he prevents it.” 

In came Miss Charity, very red and angry. 

“He’s just in one of his odd tempers. I 
don’t mind one word he says to-night. He’ll 
be quite different, you’ll see, in the morning. 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


133 


We’ll sit up here, and have a good talk about it, 
till it’s time for you to go ; and you’ll see I’m 
quite right. I’m surprised, ” she continued, with 
severity, “at his talking as he did to-night. I 
consider it quite worldly and wicked! But I 
contented myself with telling him that he did 
not think one word of what he said, and that 
he knew he didn't, and that he’d tell me so in 
the morning; and instead of feeling it, as I 
thought he would, he said something intolerably 
rude.” 

Old Etherage, about an hour later, when they 
were all in animated discussion, shuffled to the 
door, and put in his head, and looked surprised 
to see Tom, who looked alarmed to see him. 
And the old gentleman bid them all a glower- 
ing good-night, and shortly after they heard him 
wheeled away to his bedroom, and were re- 
lieved. 

They sat up awfully late, and the old servant 
v/ho poked into the room oftener than he was 
wanted toward the close of their sitting, looked 
wan and bewildered with drowsiness ; and at 
last Charity, struck by the ghastly resignation 
of his countenance, glanced at the French clock 
over the chimney-piece, and ejaculated — 

♦ “Why, merciful goodness! is it possible? 
A quarter to one ! It can^t possibly he. Thomas 
Sedley, will you look at your watch, and tell us 
what o’clock it really is ?” 

His watch corroborated the French clock. 

^ ‘ ^'papa heard this ! I really can’t the least 
conceive how it happened. I did not think it 
could have been eleven. Well, it is undoubtedly 
the oddest thing that ever happened in this 
house!” 

In the morning between ten and eleven, when 
Tom Sedley appeared again at the drawing-room 
windows, he learned from Charity, in her own 
eniphatic style of narration, what had since 
taken place, which was not a great deal, but 
still was uncomfortably ambiguous. 

She had visited her father at his breakfast in 
the study, and promptly introduced the subject 
of Tom Sedley, and he broke into this line of 
observation — 

“I’d like to know what the deuce Tom Sed- 
ley means by talking of business to girls. I’d 
like to know it. I say, if he has any thing to 
say, why doesn’t he say it, that’s what I say. 
Here I am. What has he to say. I don’t ob- 
ject to hear him, be it sense or be it nonsense 
— out with it ! That’s my maxim ; and be it 
sense or be it nonsense, I won’t have it at second 
hand. That’s my idea.” 

Acting upon this. Miss Charity insisted that 
he ought to see Mr. Etherage ; and with a beat- 
ing heart, he knocked at the study door, and 
asked an audience. 

“ Come in,” exclaimed the resonant voice of 
the admiral. And Tom Sedley obeyed. 

The admiral extended his hand, and greeted 
Tom kindly, but gravely. 

“Fine day, Mr. Sedley; very fine, sir. It’s 
an odd thing, Tom Sedley, but there’s more 
really fine weather up here at Hazelden, than 


anywhere else in Wales. More sunshine, and a 
deal less rain. You’d hardly believe, for you’d 
fancy on this elevated ground we should natu- 
rally have more rain, but it’s less, by several 
inches, than anywhere else in Wales ! And 
there’s next to no damp — the hygrometer tells 
that. And a curious thing, you’ll have a south- 
erly wind up here when it’s blowing from the 
east on the estuary. You can see it, by Jove I 
Now just look out of that window ; did you ever 
see such sunshine as that? There’s a clearness 
in the air up here — at the other side, if you go 
up, you get mist — but there’s something about 
it here that I would not change for any place in 
the world.” 

You may be sure Tom did not dispute any 
of these points. 

“By Jove, Tom Sedley, it would be a glori- 
ous day for a sail round the point of Penruthyn. 
I’d have been down with the tide, sir, this morn- 
ing if I had been as I was ten years ago ; but a 
fellow doesn’t like to be lifted into his yacht, 
and the girls did not care for sailing ; so I sold 
her. There wasn’t such a boat — take her for 
every thing — in the world — never V'* 

“The Feather; wasn’t she, sir?” said Tom. 

“ The Feather ! that she was, sir. A name 
pretty well known, I venture to think. .Yes, 
the Feather was her name.” 

“I have, sir; yes, indeed, often heard her 
spoken of,” said Tom, who had heard one or 
two of the boatmen of Cardyilian mention her 
with a guarded sort of commendation. I never 
could learn, indeed, that there was any thing 
very remarkable about the boat ; but Tom would 
just then have backed any assertion of the 
honest admiral’s with a loyal alacrity, border- 
ing, I am afraid, upon unscrupulousness. 

“There are the girls going out with their 
trowels, going to poke among those flowers ; 
and certainly. I’ll do them the justice to say, 
their garden prospers. I don’t see such flowers 
anywhere; do5'Ou?” 

Nowhere said Tom, with enthusiasm. 

‘ ‘ Ay, there they’re at it — grubbing and raking. 
And by the bye, Tom, what was that ? Sit down 
for a minute.” 

Tom felt as if he was going to choke, but he 
sat down. 

“ What was that — some nonsense Charity 
was telling me last night?” 

Thus invited, poor Sedley, with many hesi- 
tations, and wanderings, and falterings, did get 
through his romantic story. And Mr. Ether- 
age did not look pleased by the recital ; on the 
contrary, he carried his head unusually high, 
and looked hot and minatory, but he did not 
explode. He continued looking on the oppo- 
site wall, as he had done as if he were eyeing a 
battle there, and he cleared his voice. 

“As I understand it, sir, there’s not an in- 
come to make it at all prudent. I don’t want 
my girls to marry ; I should, in fact, miss them 
very much ; but if they do, there ought to be a 
settlement, don’t you see ? there should be a set- 
tlement, for / can’t do so much for them as 


134 


THE TENANTS OP MALORY. 


people suppose.. The property is settled, and 
the greater, part goes to my grand-nephew after 
me ; and I’ve invested, as you know, all my 
stock and money in the quarry at Llanrwyd; 
and if she married you, she should live in Lon- 
don the greater part of the year. And I don’t 
see how you could get on upon what you both 
have ; I don’t, sir. And I must say, I think you 
ought to have spoken to me before paying your 
addresses, sir. I don’t think that’s unreasona- 
ble ; on the contrary, I think it reasonable, per- 
fectly so, and only right and fair. And I must 
go farther, sir ; I must say this, I don’t see, 
sir, without a proper competence, what preten- 
sions you had to address my child.” 

“None, sir; none in the world, Mr. Ether- 
age. I know, sir, I’ve been thinking of my pre- 
sumption ever since. I betrayed myself into it, 
sir ; it was a kind of surprise. If I had reflect- 
ed I should have come to you, sir ; but — but 
you have no idea, sir, how I adore her.” Tom’s 
eye wandered after her through the window, 
among the flowers. “Or what it would be to 
me to — to have to — ” 

Tom Sedley faltered, and bit his lip, and 
started up quickly and looked at an engraving 
of old Etherage’s frigate, which hung on the 
study wall. 

He looked at it for some time steadfastly. 
Never was man so aflected by the portrait of a 
frigate, you would have thought. Vane Ether- 
age saw him diy his eyes stealthily two or three 
times, and the old gentleman coughed a little, 
and looked out of the window, and would have 
got up, if he could, and stood close to it. 

“It’s a beautiful day, certainly ; wind com- 
ing round a bit to the south, though — south by 
east ; that's always a squally wind with us ; and 
— and — I assure you I like you, Tom ; upon my 
honor I do, Tom Sedley — better, sir, than any 
young fellow I know. I think I do — I am sure, 
in fact, I do. But this thing — it wouldn’t do — 
it really wouldn’t ; no, Tom Sedley, it wouldn’t 
do ; if you reflect you’ll see it. But, of course, 
you may get on in the world. Rome wasn’t 
built in a day.” 

“It’s very kind of you, sir; but the time’s 
so long, and so many chances,” said Sedley, 
with a sigh like a sob; “and when I go away, 
sir, the sooner I die, the happier for me.” 

Tom turned again quickly toward the frigate 
— the Vidcan — and old Etherage looked out of 
the window once more, and up at the clouds. 

“ Yes,” said the admiral, “ it will ; we shall 
have it from south by east. And, d’ye hear, 
Tom Sedley ? I — I’ve been thinking there’s no 
need to make any fuss about this — this thing ; 
just let it be as if you had never said a word 
about it, do you mind, and come here just as 
usual. Let us put it out of our heads ; and if 
you find matters improve, and still wish it, there’s 
nothing to prevent your speaking to me ; only 
Agnes is perfectly free, you understand, and you 
are not to make any change in your demeanor 
— ha — a — or — I mean to be more with my 
daughters, or any thing marked, you understand. 


People begin to talk here, you know,’ in the 
club-house, on very slight grounds ; and — and — 
you understand now ; and there mustn’t be any 
nonsense ; and I like you, sir — I like you, Thom- 
as Sedley; I do — I do, indeed, sir.” 

And old Vane Etherage gave him a very 
friendly shake by the hand, and Tom thanked 
him gratefully, and went away reprieved, and 
took a walk with the girls, and told them, as 
they expressed it, every thing ; and Vane Ether- 
age thought it incumbent on him to soften mat- 
ters a little by asking him to dinner ; and Tom 
accepted; and when they broke up after tea, 
there was another mistake discovered about the 
hour, and Miss Charity most emphatically an- 
nounced that it perfectly unaccountable, and 
must never occur again ; and I hope, for the sake 
of the venerable man who sat up, resigned and 
affronted, to secure the hall-door and put out 
the lamps after the party had broken up, that 
these irregular hours were kept no more at Ha- 
zelden. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

ARCADIAN LILAC, AND LABURNUM AND RED 
BRICK. 

As time proceeds, renewal and decay, its twin 
principles of mutation, being everywhere, and 
necessarily active, apply to the moral as well as 
to the material world. Affections displace and 
succeed one another. The most beautiful are 
often the first to die. Characteristics in their 
beginning, minute and unsubstantial as the fairy 
brood that people the woodland air, enlarge and 
materialize till they usurp the dominion of the 
whole man, and the people and the world arc 
changed. 

Sir Booth Fanshawe is away at Paris just 
now, engaged in a great negotiation, which is to 
bring order out of chaos, and inform him at last 
what he is really worth per annum. Margaret 
and her cousin, Miss Sheckleton, have re-visited 
England; their Norman retreat is untenanted 
for the present. 

With the sorrow of a great concealment upon 
her, with other sorrows that she does not tell, 
Margaret looks sad and pale. 

In a small old suburban house, that stands 
alone, with a rural affectation, on a little patch 
of shorn grass, embowered in lilacs and labur- 
nums, and built of a deep vermilion brick, the 
residence of these ladies is established. 

It is a summer evening, and a beautiful little 
boy, more than a year old, is sprawling, and 
rolling, and babbling, and laughing on the grass 
upon his back. Margaret is seated on the grass 
beside him, prattles and laughs with him, and 
rolls him about, delighted, and adoring her little 
idol. 

Old Anne Sheckleton, sitting on the bench, 
smiling happily, under the window, which is 
clustered round with roses, contributes her quota 
of nonsense to the prattle. 

In the midst of this comes a ring at the bell 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


in the jessamine-covered wall, and a tidy little 
maid runs out to the green door, opens it, and 
in steps Cleve Verney. 

Margaret is on her feet in a moment, with 
the light of a different love, something of the 
old romance, in the glad surprise, “Oh, dar- 
ling, it is you!” and her arms are about his 
neck, and he stoops and kisses her fondly, and 
in his face for a nfloment is reflected the glory 
of tliat delighted smile. 

“Yes, darling. Are you better ?” 

“ Oh, yes — ever so much ; I’m always well 
when you are here ; and look, see our poor lit- 
tle darling.” 

“ So he is.” 

“ We have had such fun with him — haven’t 
we, Anne ? I’m sure he’ll be so like you.” 

“Is that in his favor. Cousin Anne?” asked 
Cleve, taking the old lady’s hand. 

“Why should it not?” said she, gayly. 

“A question — well, I take the benefit of the 
doubt,” laughed Cleve. “ No, darling,” he said 
to Margaret, “ you mustn’t«sit on the grass; it 
is damp ; you’ll sit beside our Cousin Anne, and 
be prudent.” 

So he instead sat down on the grass, and 
talked with them, and prattled and romped with 
the baby by turns, until the nurse came out to 
convey him to the nursery, and he was handed 
round to say what passes for “Good-night,” 
and give his tiny paw to each in turn. 

“You look tired, Cleve, darling.” 

“ So I am, my Guido ; can we have a cup 
of tea?” 

“Oh, yes. I’ll get it in a moment,” said 
active Anne Sheckleton. 

“It’s too bad disturbing you,” said Cleve. 

“No trouble in the world,” said Anne, who 
wished to allow them a word together ; besides, 
I must kiss baby in his bed.” 

“ Yes, darling, I am tired,” said Cleve, taking 
his place beside her, so soon as old Anne 
Sheckleton was gone. “ That old man — 

“Lord Verney, do you mean ?” 

“ Yes, he has begun plaguing me again.’ 

“ AVliat is it about, darling?” 

“Oh, fifty things; he thinks among others 
I ought to marry,” said Cleve, with a dreary 
laugh. 

“ Oh ! I thought he had given up that,” she 
said, with a smile that was very pale. 

“ So he did for a time; but I think he’s 
possessed. If he happens to take up an idea 
that’s likely to annoy other people, he never lets 
it drop till he teases them half to death. He 
thinks I should gain money and political con- 
nection, and I don’t know what all, and I’m 
quite tired of the whole thing. What a vulgar 
little box this is — isn’t it, darling? I almost 
wish you were back again in that place in 
France.” 

“But I can see you so much oftener here, 
Cleve,” pleaded Margaret, softly, with a very 
sad look. 

“And where’s the good of seeing me here, 
dear Margaret ? Just consider, I always come 


135 

to you anxious ; there’s always a risk, besides, 
of discovery. 

“ Where you are is to me a paradise.” 

“ Oh, darling, do not talk rubbish. This 
vulgar, odious little place! No place can be 
either — quite, of course, where you are. But you 
must see what it is — a paradise” — and he laughed 
peevishly — “of red brick, and lilacs, and labur- 
nums — a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tal- 
low-chandler.” 

There was a little tremor in Margaret’s lip, 
and the water stood in her large eyes ; her hand 
was, as it were, on the coffin-edge ; she was 
looking down in the face of a dead romance. 

“Now, you really must not shed tears over 
that speech. You are too much given to weep- 
ing, Margaret. What have I said to vex you ? 
It merely amounts to this, that we live just now 
in the future ; we can’t well deny that, darling. 
But the time will come at last, and my queen 
enjoy her own.” 

And so saying he kissed her, and told her to 
be a good little girl ; and from the window Miss 
Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran 
up to the nursery. 

“You do look very tired, Cleve,” said Mar- 
garet, looking into his anxious face. 

“I am tired, darling,” he said, with just a 
degree of impatience in his tone ; “I said so — 
horribly tired.” 

“I wish so much you were out of the House 
of Commons.” 

“Now, my wise little woman is talking of 
what she doesn’t understand — not the least ; 
besides, what would you have me turn to? I 
should be totally without resource and pursuit 
— don’t you see? We must be reasonable. 
No, it is not that in the least that tires me, but 
I’m really overwhelmed with anxieties, and 
worried by my uncle, who wants me to marry, 
and thinks I can marry very well, and whom I 
like — that’s all.” 

“I sometimes think, Cleve, I’ve spoiled your 
fortunes,” with a great sigh said Margaret. 

“Now, where’s the good of saying that, my 
little woman ? I’m only talking of my uncle’s 
teasing me, and wishing he’d let us both alone.” 

Here came a little pause. 

“Is that the baby?” said Margaret, raising 
her head and listening. 

“I don’t hear our baby or anyone else’s,” 
said Cleve. 

“I fancied I heard it cry, but it wasn't.” 

“You must think of me more, and of that 
child less, darling — you must, indeed,” said 
Cleve, a little sourly. 

I think the poor heart was pleased, thinking 
this jealousy ; but I fear it was rather a splene- 
tic impulse of selfishness, and that the baby was, 
in his eyes, a bore pretty often. 

‘ ‘ Does the House sit to-night, Cleve, dar- 
ling?” 

“Does it, indeed? Why, it’s sitting now. 
We are to have the second reading of the West 
India Bill on to-night, and I must be there — 
yes — in an hour” — he was glancing at his watch 


136 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


— “and heaven knows at what hour in the 
morning we shall get away.” 

And just at this moment old Anne Sheckle- 
ton joined them. “ She’s coming with more 
tea,” she said, as the maid emerged with a little 
tray, “and we’ll place our cups on the window- 
stone when we don’t want them. Now, Mr. 
Verney, is not this a charming little spot just 
at this light ?” 

“ I almost think it is,” said Cleve, relenting. 
The golden light of evening 'was touching the 
formal poplars, and the other trees, and bringing 
out the wrinkles of the old bricks duskily in its 
flaming glow. 

“ Yes, just for about fifteen minutes in the 
twenty-four hours, when the weather is “partic- 
ularly favorable, it has a sort of Dutch pict- 
uresqueness ; but on the whole, it is not the 
sort of cottage that I would choose for a perma- 
nent dove-cote. I should fear lest my pigeons 
should choke with dust.” 

“ No, there’s no dust here ; it is the quietest, 
most sylvan little lane in the world.” 

“Which is a wide place,” said Cleve. 
“Well, with smoke then.” 

“ Nor smoke either.” 

“But I forgot, love does not die of smoke, 
or of any thing else,” said Cleve. 

“No, of course, love is eternal,” said Mar- 
garet. 

“Just so; the King never dies. Les roix 
meurent-ils f Quelquefoi, madame. Alas, the- 
ory and fact conflict. Love is eternal in the 
abstract ; but nothing is more mortal than a 
particular love,” said Cleve. 

“ If you think so, I wonder you ever wished 
to marry,” said Margaret, and a faint, tinge 
flushed her cheeks. 

“ I thought so, and yet I did wish to marry,” 
said Cleve. “It is perishable, but I can’t 
live without it,” and he patted her cheek, and 
laughed a rather cold little laugh. 

“No, love never dies,” said Margaret, with 
a gleam of her old fierce spirit. “ But perhaps 
it may be killed.” 

“It is terrible to kill any thing,” said Cleve. 

“To kill love,” she answered, “is the worst 
murder of all.” 

“ A veritable murder,” he acquiesced ; “ once 
killed, it never revives.” 

“ You like talking awfully, as if I might lose 
your love,” said she, haughtily ; “as if, were I 
to vex you, you never could forgive.” 

“ Forgiveness has nothing to do with it, my 
poor little woman. I no more called my love 
into being than I did myself ; and should it die, 
either naturally or violently, I could no more 
recall it to life, than I could Cleopatra or Na- 
poleon Bonaparte. It is a principle, don’t you 
see ? that comes as direct as life from heaven. 
We can’t create it, we can’t restore it; and 
really about love, it is worse than mortal, be- 
cause, as I said, I am sure it has no resurrec- 
tion — no, it has no resurrection.’ 

“ That seems to me a reason,” she said, fix- 
ing her large eyes upon him with a wild resent- 


ment, “why you should cherish it very much 
while it lives.” 

“And don't I, darling?” he said, placing his 
arms round her neck, and drawing her fondly 
to his breast, and in the thrill of that moment- 
aiy effusion was something of the old feeling 
when to lose her would have been despair, to 
gain her heaven, and it seemed as if the scent 
of the woods of Malory, and of the soft sea- 
breeze, was around them for a moment. 

And now he is gone, away to that weary 
House — lost to her, given up to his ambition, 
which seems more and more to absorb him ; 
and she remains smiling on their beautiful little 
baby, with a great misgiving at her heart, for 
four-and-twenty hours more. 

As Cleve went into the House, he met old 
Colonel Thongs, sometime whip of the “ outs.’^ 

“You’ve heard about old Snowdon?” 

“No.” 

“ In the Cabinet, by Jove.’^ 

“Really?” 

“ Fact. Ask your uncle.” 

“By Jove, it is very unlooked-for; no one 
thought of him ; but I dare say he’ll do very 
well.” 

“ We’ll soon try that.” 

It was a very odd appointment. But Lord 
Snowdon was gazetted ; a dull man, but labo- 
rious; a man who had held minor offices at 
different periods of his life, and was presumed 
to have a competent knowledge of affairs. A 
dull man, owing all to his dullness, quite below 
many, and selected as a negative compromise 
for the vacant seat in the Cabinet, for which 
two zealous and brilliant competitors were con- 
tending. 

“I see it all,” thought Cleve; “that’s the 
reason why Caroline Oldys and Lady Wimble- 
don are to be at Ware this autumn, and I’m to 
be married to the niece of a Cabinet minister.” 

Cleve sneered, but he felt very uneasy. 


CHAPTER LV. 

THE TRIUMVIRATE. 

That night Lord Verney waited to hear the 
debate in the Commons — waited for the division 
— and brought Cleve home with him in his 
brougham. 

He explained to Cleve on the way how much 
better the debate might have been. He some- 
times half regretted his seat in the Commons ; 
there were so many things unsaid that ought to 
have been said, and so many things said that 
had better have been omitted. And at last he 
remarked — 

“Your uncle Arthur, my unfortunate brother, 
had a great natural talent for speaking. It’s a 
talent of the Verneys — about it. We all have 
it; and you have got it also; it is a gift of veiy 
decided importance in debate ; it can hardly be 
overestimated in that respect. Poor Arthur 
might have done very well, but he didn’t, and 


THE TENANTS OE MALOEY. 


137 


he’s gone— about it ; and I’m very glad, for your 
own sake, you are cultivating it ; and it would 
be a very great misfortune, I’ve been thinking, 
if our family were not to marry, and secure a 
transmission of those hereditary talents and — 
and things — and — what’s your opinion of Miss 
Caroline Oldys? I mean, quite frankly, what 
sort of wife you think she would make.” 

‘‘Why, to begin with, she’s been out a long 
time ; but I believe she’s gentle — and foolish ; 
and I believe her mother bullies her.” 

“I don’t know what you call bullying, my 
good sir ; but she appears to me to be a very 
affectionate mother ; and as to her being fool- 
ish — about it — I can’t perceive it ; on the con- 
trary, I’ve conversed with her a good deal — and 
things — and I’ve found her very superior indeed 
to any young woman I can recollect having 
talked to. She takes an interest in things 
which don’t interest or — or — interest other young 
persons ; and she likes to be instructed about 
affairs — and, my dear Cleve, I think where a 
young person of merit — either rightly or wrong- 
ly interpreting what she conceives to be your 
attentions — becomes decidedly epris of you, she 
ought to be — a — considered — her feelings, and 
things ; and I thought I might as well mention 
my views, and go — about it — straight to the 
point ; and I think you will perceive that it is 
reasonable, and that’s the position — about it ; 
and you know, Cleve, in these circumstances 
you may reckon upon me to do any thing in 
reason that may still lie in my power — about it.” 

“You have always been too kind to me.” 

“ You shall find me so still. Lady Wimble- 
don takes an interest in you, and Miss Caroline 
Oldys will, I undertake to say, more and more 
decidedly as she comes to know you better.” 

And so saying. Lord Verney leaned back in 
the brougham as if taking a doze, and after 
about five minutes of closed eyes and silence he 
suddenly wakened up and said — 

“ It is, in fact, it strikes me, high time, Cleve, 
you should marry — about it — and you must 
liave money, too; you want money, and you 
shall have it.” 

“I’m afraid money is not one of Carolines 
strong points.” 

“You need not trouble yourself upon that 
point, sir; if Tm satisfied I fancy you may. 
I’ve quite enough for both, I presume; and — 
and so, we’ll let that matter rest.” 

And the noble lord let himself rest also, lean- 
ing stiffly back with closed eyes, and nodding 
and swaying silently with the motion of the car- 
riage. 

I believe he was only ruminating after his 
manner in these periods of apparent repose. 
He opened his eyes again, and remarked — 

“ I have talked over this affair carefully with 
Mr. Larkin — a most judicious and worthy per- 
son — about it, and you can talk to him, and so 
on, when he comes to town, and I should rather 
wish you to do so. ” 

Lord Verney relapsed into silence and the 
semblance, at least, of slumber. 


“ So Larkin’s at the bottom of it ; I knew he 
was,” thought Cleve, with a pang of hatred 
which augured ill for the future prospects of 
that good man. “ He has made this alliance 
for tlie Oldys and Wimbledon faction, and I’m 
Mr. Larkin's parti, and am to settle the man- 
agement of every thing upon him ; and what a 
judicious diplomatist he is — and how he has 
put his foot in it. A blundering hypocritical 
coxcomb — d — n him ! ” 

Then his thoughts wandered away to Larkin, 
and to his instrument, Mr. Dingwell, “who 
looks as if he came from the galleys. We have 
heard nothing of him for a year or more. 
Among the Greek and Malay scoundrels again, 
I suppose ; the Turks are too good for him.” 

But Mr. Dingwell had not taken his depart- 
ure, and was not thinking of any such step yet^ 
at least. He had business still on his hands, 
and a mission unaccomplished. 

Still in the same queer lodgings, and more 
jealously shut up during the day-time than ever, 
Mr. Dingwell lived his odd life, professing to 
hate England — certainly in danger there — he 
yet lingered on for a set purpose, over which he 
brooded and laughed in his hermitage. 

To so chatty a person as Mr. Dingwell soli- 
tude for a whole day was irksome. Sarah 
Bumble was his occasional resource, and when 
she brought him his cup of bla,ck coffee he 
would make her sit down by the wall, like a 
servant at prayers, and get from her all the 
news of the dingy little neighborhood, wuth a 
running commentary of his own flighty and 
savage irony, and he w’ould sometimes enter- 
tain her, between the whiffs of his long pipe, 
with talk of his own, which he was at no pains 
to adapt to her comprehension, and delivered 
rather for his own sole entertainment. 

“The world, the flesh, and the devil, ma’am. 
The two first we know pretty well — hey ? the 
other we take for granted. I suppose there is 
somebody of the sort. We are all pigs, ma’am 
— unclean animals — and this is a sty we live 
in — slime and abomination. Strong delusion 
is, unseen, circling in the air. Our ideas of 
beauty, delights of sense, varieties of intellect 
— all a most comical and frightful cheat — egad! 
What fun we must be, ma’am, to the spirits 
who have sight and intellect 1 I think, ma’am, 
we’re meant for their pantomime — don’t you ? 
Our airs, and graces, and dignities, and compli- 
ments, and beauties, and dandies— our metal 
coronets, and lawn sleeves, and whalebone wigs 
— fun, ma’am, lots of fun ! And here we are, 
a wonderful work of God. Eh ? Come, 
ma’am — a word in your ear — all putrefaction — 
pah ! nothing clean but fire, and that makes us 
roar and vanish — a very odd position we’re 
placed in ; hey, ma’am ?” 

Mr. Dingwell had at first led Sarah Bumble 
a frightful life, for she kept the door where the 
children were peremptorily locked, at which he 
took umbrage and put her on fatigue duty, 
more than trebling her work by his caprices, 
and requiting her with his ironies and sneers, 


138 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


finding fault with every thing, pretending to 
miss money out of his desk, and every day 
threatening to invoke Messrs. Levi & Gold- 
shed, and invite an incursion of the police, and 
showing in his face, his tones — his jeers pointed 
and envenomed by revenge — that his hatred 
was active and fiendish. 

But Sarah Rumble was resolute. He was 
not a desirable companion for childhood of 
either sex, and the battle went on for a consid- 
erable time ; and poor Sarah in her misery be- 
sought Messrs. Levi & Goldshed, with many 
tears and prayers, that he might depart from 
her ; and Levi looked at Goldshed, and Gold- 
shed at Levi, quite gravely, and Levi winked, 
and Goldshed nodded, and said, “ A bad boy 
and they spake comfortably, and told her they 
would support her, but Mr. Dingwell must re- 
main her inmate, but they’d take care he should 
do her no harm. 

Mr. Dingwell had a latch-key, which he" at 
first used sparingly or timidly ; with time, how- 
ever, his courage grew, and he was out more or 
less every night. She used to hear him go out 
after the little household was in bed, and some- 
times she heard him lock the hall-door, and his 
step on the stairs when the sky was already 
gray with the dawn. 

And gradually finding company such as he 
affected out-of-doors, I suppose, he did not care 
so much for the seclusion of his fellow-lodgers, 
and ceased to resent it almost, and made it up 
with Sarah Rumble. 

And one night, having to go up between one 
and two for a match-box to the lobby, she en- 
countered Mr. Dingwell coming down. She 
was dumb with terror, for she did not know him, 
and took him for a burglar, he being somehow 
totally changed — she was too confused to recol- 
lect exactly, only that he had red hair and 
whiskers, and looked stouter. 

She did not know him the least till he 
laughed. She was near fainting, and leaned 
with her shoulder to the corner of the wall ; 
and he said — 

“ I’ve to put on these ; you keep my secret, 
mind ; you may lose me my life, else.” 

And he took her by the chin, and gave her a 
kiss, and then a slap on the cheek that seemed 
to her harder than play, for her ear tingled with 
it for an hour after, and she uttered a little cry 
of fright, and he laughed, and glided out of the 
hall-door, and listened for the tread of a police- 
man, and peeped slyly up and down the court ; 
and then, with his cotton umbrella in his hand, 
walked quietly down the passage and disap- 
peared. 

Sarah Rumble feared him all the more for 
this little rencontre and the shock she had re- 
ceived, for there was a suggestion of some- 
thing felonious in his disguise. She was, how- 
ever, a saturnine and silent woman, with few ac- 
quaintances, and no fancy for collecting or 
communicating news. There was a spice of 
danger, too, in talking of this matter; so she 
took counsel of the son of Sirach, who says, 


“If thou hast heard a word, let it die with 
thee, and, behold, it will not burst thee.” 

Sarah Rumble kept his secret, and hence- 
forward at such hours kept close when in the 
deep silence of the night she heard the faint 
creak of his stealthy shoe upon the stair, and 
avoided him as she would a meeting with a 
ghost. 

Whatever were his amusements, Messrs. 
Goldshed & Levi grumbled savagely at the 
cost of them. They grumbled because grum- 
bling was a principle of theirs in carrying on 
their business. 

“No matter how it turns out, keep always 
grumbling to the man who led you into the 
venture, especially if he has a claim to a share 
of the profits at the close.” 

So whenever Mr. Larkin saw Messrs. Gold- 
shed & Levi he heard mourning and impreca- 
tion. The Hebrews shook their heads at the 
Christian, and chanted a Jeremiad, in duet, 
together, and each appealed to the other for 
confirmation of the dolorous and bitter truths 
he uttered. And the iron safe opened its jaws 
and disgorged the private ledger of the firm, 
which ponderous and greasy tome was laid on 
the desk with a • pound, and opened at this 
transaction — the matter of Dingwell, Verney, 
etc. ; and Mr. Levi would run his black nail 
along the awful items of expenditure that filled 
column after column. 

“Look at that — look here — look, will you? 
— look, I say: you never sawed an account 
like that — never — all this here — look — down— ^ 
and down — and down — and down — ” 

“ Enough to frighten the Bank of England !” 
boomed Mr. Goldshed. 

“ Look down thish column,” resumed Levi,” 
and thish, and thish, and thish — there’s nine 
o’ them — and not one stiver on th’ other side. 
Look, look, look, look, look! Da-am, it’sh all 
a quaag, and a quickshand — nothing but shink 
and shwallow, and give ush more” — and as ho 
spoke Levi was knocking the knuckles of his 
long lean fingers fiercely upon the empty col- 
umns, and eyeing Larkin with a rueful feroci- 
ty, as if he had plundered and half murdered 
him and his partner, who sat there innocent as 
the babes in the wood. 

Mr. Larkin knew quite well, however, that 
so far from regretting their investment, they 
would not have sold their ventures under a very 
high figure indeed. 

“ And that da-am Dingwell, talking as if he 
had us all in quod, by — , and always whim-^ 
perin’, and whingin’, and swearin’ for more — • 
why you’d say, to listen to his bosh, ’twas him had 
us under his knuckle — you would — the lunatic !” 

“ And may I ask what he wants just at pres- 
ent?” inquired Mr. Larkin. 

“ What he always wants, and won’t be easy 
never till he gets it — a walk up the mill, sir, 
and his head cropped, and six months’ solitary, 
and a touch of corporal now and again. I 
never saw’d a cove as wanted a teasin’ more ; 
that’s what he wants. What he’s looking for, 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


139 


of course, is different, only he shan’t get it, 
nohow. And I think, looking at that hook 
there, as I showed you this account in — consid- 
ering what me and the gov’nor here has done — 
’twould only be fair you should come down with 
summut, if you goes in for the lottery, with 
other gentlemen as pays their pool like bricks, 
alhd never does modest, by no chance.” 

“He has pushed that game a little too far,” 
said Mr. Larkin ; “I have considered his feel- 
ings a great deal too much.” 

“ Yesh, but we have feelinsh. The gov' nor 
has feelinsh; I have feelinsh. Think what 
state our feelinsh is in, lookin’ at that there ac- 
count,” said Mr. Levi with much pathos. 

Mr. Larkin glanced toward the door, and 
then toward the window. 

“We are quite alone f' said he, mildly. 

“Yesh, without you have the devil in your 
pocket, as old Dingwell saysh,” answered Levi, 
sulkily. 

“ For there are subjects* of a painful nature, 
as you know, gentlemen, connected with this 
particular case,” continued Mr. Larkin. 

“Awful painful; but we’ll sta-an’ it,” said 
Goldshed, with unctuous humor; “ we’ll sta-an’ 
it, but wishes it over quick ; ” and he winked at 
Levi. 

“ Yesh, he wishes it over quick, ” echoed Levi ; 
“ the gov’nor and me, we wishes it over quick.” 

“And so do I, most assuredly ; but we must 
have a little patience. If deception does lurk 
here — and you know I warned you I suspected 
it — we must not prematurely trouble Lord Ver- 
ney.” 

“ He might throw up the sponge, he might, 
I khowf said Levi, with a nod. 

“ I don’t know what course Lord Verney 
might think it right in such a case to adopt ; I 
only know that until I am in a position to re- 
duce suspicion to certainty, it would hardly con- 
sist with right feeling to torture his mind upon 
the subject. In the mean time he is — a — grow- 
ing—” 

“Growing warm in his berth,” said Gold- 
shed. 

“Establishing himself, I should say, in his 
position. He has been incurring, I need hardly 
tell you, enormous expense in restoring (I might 
say re-huilding) the princely mansions of Ware, 
and of Verney House. He applied much ready 
money to that object, and has charged the es- 
tates with nearly sixty thousand pounds besides. ” 
Mr. Larkin lowered his tones reverentially at the 
mention of so considerable a sum. 

“I know Sirachs did nigh thirty thoushand 
o’ that,” said Mr. Goldshed. 

“ And that tends to — to — as I may say, steady 
him in his position ; and I may mention in con- 
fidence, gentlemen, that there are other meas- 
ures on the tapis (he pronounced taypis) which 
will farther and still more decidedly fix him in 
his position. It would pain us all deeply, gen- 
tlemen, that a premature disclosure of my un- 
easiness should inspire his lordship with a j)an- 
ic in which he might deal ruinously with his 


own interests, and, in fact, as you say, Mr. Levi, 
throw up the — the — ” 

“ Sponge,” said Levi, reflectively. 

“But I may add,” said Mr. Larkin, “that I 
am impatiently watching the moment when it 
may became my duty to open my suspicions fully 
to Lord Verney ; and that I have reason to 
know that that moment can not now be distant.” 

“ Here’s Tomlinshon cornin’* up, gov’nor,” 
said Mr. Levi, jumping off the table on which he 
had been sitting, and sweeping the great ledger 
into his arms, he pitched it into its berth in the 
safe, and locked it into that awful prison-house. 

“I said he would,” said Goldshed, with a 
lazy smile, as he unlocked a drawer in the lum- 
bering office table at which he sat. “ Don’t 
bring out them overdue renewals; we’ll not 
want them till next week.” 

Mr. Tomlinson, a tall, thin man, in light 
drab trowsers, with a cotton umbrella swinging 
in his hand, and a long care-worn face, came 
striding up the court. 

“ You won’t do that for him ?” asked Levi. 

“No, not to-day,” murmured Mr. Goldshed, 
with a wink. And Mr. Tomlinson’s timid 
knock and feeble ring at the door were heard. 

And Mr. Larkin put on his well-brushed hat, 
and pulled on his big lavender gloves, and 
stood up at his full length, in his new black frock- 
coat, and waistcoat and trowsers of the accus- 
tomed hue, and presents the usual glossy and 
lavender-tinted effect, and a bland simper rests 
on his lank cheeks, and his small pink eyes, 
look their adieux upon Messrs. Goldshed & 
Levi, on whom his airs and graces are quite 
lost; and with his slim silk umbrella between 
his great finger and thumb, he passes loftily by 
the cotton umbrella of Mr. Tomlinson, and 
fancies, with a pardonable egotism, that that 
poor gentleman, whose head is full of his bill- 
book and renewals, and possible executions, 
and preparing to deceive a villainous omnis- 
cience, and to move the compassion of Pande- 
monium — is thinking of and mistaking him, 

possibly, for a peer, or for some other type of 
aristocracy. 

The sight of that unfortunate fellow, Tomlin- 
son, with a wife and a seedy hat, and children, 
and a cotton umbrella, whose little business was 
possibly about to be knocked about his ears, 
moved a lordly pity in Mr. Larkin’s breast, and 
suggested contrasts, also, of many kinds, that 
were calculated to elate his good humor ; and 
as he stepped into the cab, and the driver wait- 
ed to know “ where,” he thought he might as 
well look in upon the recluse of Eosemary 
Court, and give him, of course with the exquis- 
ite tact that was peculiar to him, a hint or two 
in favor of reason and moderation ; for really it 
icas quite true what Mr. Levi had said about 
the preposterous presumption of a person in 
j Mr. Dingwell’s position affecting the airs of a 
dictator. 

So being in the mood to deliver a lecture, to 
the residence of that uncomfortable old gentle- 
man he drove, and walked up the flagged pas- 


140 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


sage to the flagged court-yard, and knocked at 
the door, and looked up at the square ceiling 
of sickly sky, and strode up the narrow stairs 
after Mrs. Kumble. 

“How d’ye do, sir? Your soul quite well, 
I trust. Your spiritual concerns flourishing to- 
day ?”was the greeting of Mr. Dingwell’s mock- 
ing voice. 

“Thanks, Mr. Dingwell; I’m very well,” 
answered Mr. Larkin, with a bow which was 
meant to sober Mr. Ding well’s mad humor. 

Sarah Eumble, as we know, had a defined 
fear of Mr. Dingwell, but also a vague terror ; 
for there was a great deal about him ill-omened 
and mysterious. There was a curiosity, too, 
active within her, intense and rather ghastly, 
about all that concerned him. She did not care, 
therefore, to get up and go away from the small 
hole in the carpet which she was darning on 
the lobby, and through the door she heard 
faintly some talk she didn’t understand, and 
Mr. Dingwell’s voice, at a high pitch, said — 

“D — you, sir, do you think I’m a fool? 
Don’t you think I’ve your letter^ and a copy of 
my own ? If we draw swords, egad, sir, mine’s 
the longer and sharper, as you’ll feel. Ha, ha, 
ha!” 

“Oh, lawk!” gasped Sarah Rumble, stand- 
ing up, and expecting the clash of rapiers. 

“Your face, sir, is as white and yellow — 
you’ll excuse me — as an old turban, I beg 
your pardon ; but I want you to understand 
that I see you’re frightened, and that I won’t 
be bullied hy you.” 

“ I don’t suppose, sir, you meditate totally 
ruining yourself,” said Mr. Larkin, with dignity. 

“I tell you, sir, if any thing goes wrong 
with me. I’ll make a clean breast of it — every 
thing — ha, ha, ha! — upon my honor — and we 
two shall grill together.” 

Larkin had no idea he was going in for so 
hazardous and huge a game when he sat down 
to play. His vision was circumscribed, his pre- 
science small. He looked at the beast he had 
imported, and wished him in a deep grave in 
Scutari, the scheme quashed, and the stakes 
drawn. 

But wishing would not do. The spirit was 
evoked — in nothing more manageable than at 
first ; on the contrary, rather more insane. 
Nerve was needed, subtlety, compliance, and he 
must manage him. 

“Why the devil did you bring me here, sir, 
if you were not prepared to treat me properly ? 
You know my circumstances, and you want to 
practice on my misfortunes, you vile rogue, to 
mix me up in your fraudulent machinations.” 

“Pray, sir, not so loud. Do — do command 
yourself,” remonstrated Larkin, almost aifec- 
tionately. 

“ Do you think I’m come all this way, at the 
risk of my life, to be your slave, you shabby, 
canting attorney ? I’d better be where I was, 
or in kingdom come. By Allah! sir, you have 
me, and I’m your master, and you shan’t have 
my soul for nothing.” 


There came a loud knock at the hall-door, 
and if it had been a shot and killed them both, 
the debaters in the drawing-room could not 
have been more instantaneously and breathlessly 
silent. 

Down glided Sarah Eumble, who had been 
expecting this visit, to pay the taxman. 

And she had hardly taken his receipt, when 
Mr. Larkin, very pink, endeavoring to smile in 
his discomfiture, and observing with a balmy 
condescension, “A sweet day, Mrs. Eumble,” 
appeared, shook his ears a little, and adjusted 
his hat, and went forth, and Rosemary Court saw 
him no more for some time. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

IN VERNEY HOUSE. 

Mr. Larkin got into his cab, and ordered 
the cabman, in a loud voice, to drive to Verney 
House. 

“ Didn’t he know Verney House? He thought 
every cabman in London knew Verney House! 

The house of Lord Viscount Verney, in 

Square. Why, it fills up a whole side of it ! ” 

He looked at his watch. He had twenty- 
seven minutes to reach it in. It was partly to 
get rid of a spare half-hour, that he had paid his 
unprofitable visit to Rosemary Court. 

Mr. Larkin registered a vow to confer no 
more with Mr. Dingwell. He eased his feelings 
by making a note of this resolution in that valu- 
able little memorandum-book which he carried 
about with him in his pocket. 

Saw Mr. Dingwell this day — as usual, im- 
practicable and ill-bred to a hopeless degr'ee — 
waste of time and worse — resolved that this yen’- 
tleman being inaccessible to reason, is not to be 
argued, but DEALT with, should occasion here* 
after arise for infuencing his conduct 

Somewhere about Temple Bar, Mr. Larkin’s 
cab got locked in a string of vehicles, and he 
put his head out of the window, not being sorry 
for an opportunity of astonishing the citizens by 
calling to the driver — 

“I say, my good fellow, can’t you get on? 
I told Lord Verney to expect me at half past 
one. Do, pray, get me out of this, any way, 
and you shall have a gratuity of half a crown. 
Verney House is a good step from this. Do 
try. His lordship will be as much obliged to 
you as I am.” 

Mr. Larkin's assiduities and flatteries were, 
in truth, telling upon Lord Verney, ivith whom 
he was stealing into a general confidence which 
alarmed many people, and which Cleve Verney 
hated more than ever. 

With the pretty mansion of Hazelden the 
relations, as Lord Verney would have said, of 
the House of Ware were no longer friendly. 
This was another instance of the fragility of hu- 
man arrangements, and the vanity of human 
hopj^s. The altar had been erected, the swine 
sacrificed, and the augurs and haruspices on 


141 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


both sides had predicted nothing but amity and 
concord. Game, fruit, and venison, went and 
came — “Much good may it do your good 
heart.” “It was ill-killed,” etc. Master 
Shallow and Master Page could not liave been 
more courteous on such occasions. But on the 
fete champetre had descended a sudden procella. 
The roses were whirling high in the darkened 
air, the flatteries and laughter were drowned in 
thunder, and the fiddles smashed with hailstones 
as large as potatoes. 

A general election had come and gone, and 
in that brief civil war old Vane Etherage was 
found at the wrong side. In Lord Verney’s 
language neighbor meant something like vassal, 
and Etherage, who had set up his banners and 
arrayed his power on the other side, was a rebel. 
The less forgivable that he had, as was authen- 
tically demonstrated, by this step himself inflict- 
ed that defeat in the county which had wound- 
ed Lord Verney to the quick. 

So silence descended upon the interchange 
of civil speeches ; the partridges and pheasants 
winged from Ware in a new direction, and old 
Vane Etherage stayed his friendly hand also; 
and those tin cases of Irish salmon, from the old 
gentleman’s fisheries, packed in ice, as fresh as 
if they had sprung from the stream only half an 
hour before, were no longer known at Ware; 
and those wonderful fresh figs, gi’een and pur- 
ple, which Lord Verney affected, for which 
Hazelden is famous, and which Vane Etherage 
was fond of informing his guests were absolutely 
unequaled in any part of the known world. 
England could not approach them for bulk and 
ripeness, nor foreign parts — and he had eaten 
figs wherever figs grew — for aroma and flavor, 
no longer crossed the estuary. Thus this game 
of beggar-my-neighbor began. Lord Verney 
recalled his birds, and Mr. Etherage withdrew 
his figs. Mr. Etherage lost his great black 
grapes ; and Lord Verney sacrificed his salmon, 
and in due time Lord Verney played a writ, 
and invited an episode in a court of law, and 
another, more formidable, in the Court of Chan- 
cery. 

So the issues of war were knit again, and 
Vane Etherage was now informed by his law- 
yers there were some very unpleasant questions 
mooted affecting his title to the Windermore 
estate, for which he paid a trifling rent to the 
Verneys. 

So, when Larkin -went into Verney House he 
was closeted with its noble master for a good 
while, and returning to a smaller library — de- 
voted to blue books and pamphlets — where he 
had left a dispatch-box and umbrella during his 
w'ait for admission to his noble client, he found 
Cleve busy there. 

“Oh, Mr. Larkin. How d’ye do? Any 
thing to say to me?” said the handsome young 
man, whose eye looked angry though he smiled. 

“Ah, thanks. No, wo, Mr. Verney. I hope 
and trust I see you well ; but no, I had not any 
communication to make. Shall I be honored, 
Mr. Verney, with any communication from you?” 


“I’ve nothing to say, thanks, except of course 
to say how much obliged I am for the very par- 
ticular interest you take in my affairs.” 

“I should be eminently gratified, Mr Ver- 
ney, to merit your approbation, but I fear, sir, 
as yet I can hardly hope to have merited your 
thanks,” said Mr. Larkin modestly. 

“You won’t let me thank you; but I quite 
understand the nature and extent of your kind- 
ness. My uncle is’ by no means so reserved, 
and he has told me very frankly the care you 
have been so good as to take of me. He’s more 
obliged even than I am, and so, I am told, is 
Lady Wimbledon also.” 

Cleve had said a great deal more than at start- 
ing he had at all intended. It would have been 
easy to him to have dismissed the attorney with- 
out allusion to the topic that made him posi- 
tively hateful in his eyes , but it was not easy 
to hint at it, and quite command himself also, 
and the rtcsult illustrated the general fact that 
total abstinence is easier than moderation. 

Now the effect of this little speech of Cleve’s 
upon the attorney, was to abash Mr. Larkin, and 
positively to confound him, in a degree quite un- 
usual in a Christian so armed on most occasions 
with that special grace called presence of mind. 
The blood mounted to his hollow cheeks, and 
up to the summit of his tall bald head ; his eyes 
took their rat-like character, and looked danger- 
ously in his for a second, and then down to the 
floor, and scanned his own boots ; and he bit his 
lip, and essayed a little laugh, and tried to look 
innocent, and broke down in the attempt. He 
cleared his voice once or twice to speak, but 
said nothing ; and all this time Cleve gave him 
no help whatsoever, but enjoyed his evident con- 
fusion with an angry sneer. 

“I hope, Mr. Cleve Verney,” at length Mr. 
Larkin began, “where duty and expediency 
pull in opposite directions, I shall always be 
found at the right side.” 

“The winning side at all events,” said 
Cleve. 

“The right side, I venture to repeat. It 
has been my misfortune to be misunderstood 
more than once in the course of my life. It is 
our duty to submit to misinterpretation, as to 
other afflictions, patiently. I hope I have done 
so. My first duty is to my client. ” 

“ J 7/2 no client of yours, sir. ” 

“Well, conceding that, sir, to your uncle — to 
Lord Verney^ I will say — to his views of what 
the interests of his house demand, and to his 
feelings.” 

“ Lord Verney has been good enough to con- 
sult me, hitherto, upon this subject — a not 
quite unnatural confidence, I venture to think — 
more than you seem to suspect. He seems to 
think, and so do I, that I’ve a voice in it, and 
has not left me absolutely in the hands — in a 
matter of so much importance and delicacy — of 
his country lawyer.” 

“I had no power in this case, sir ; not even 
of mentioning the subject to you, who certainly, 
in one view, are more or less affected by it. ” 


142 


THE TENANTS OP MALOEY. 


“Thank you for the concession,” sneered 
Cleve. 

“ I make it unaffectedly, Mr. Cleve Verney,” 
replied Larkin, graciously. 

“ My uncle. Lord Verney, has given me leave 
to talk to you upon the subject. I venture to 
decline that privilege. I prefer speaking to 
him. He seems to think that I ought to be al- 
lowed to advise a little in the matter, and that 
with every respect for his wishes, mine also are 
entitled to be a little considered. Should I 
ever talk to you, Mr. Larkin, it shan’t be to ask 
your advice. I’m detaining you, sir, and I’m 
also a little busy myself.” 

Mr. Larkin looked at the young man for a 
second or two a little puzzled ; but encounter- 
ing only a look of stern impatience, he made his 
best bow, and the conference ended. 

A few minutes later in came our old friend, 
Tom Sedley. 

“ Oh ! Sedley ? Very glad to see you here ; 
but I thought you did not want to see my uncle 
just now ; and this is the most likely place, 
except the library, to meet him in.” 

“ He’s gone ; I saw him go out this moment. 
I should not have come in otherwise ; and you 
mustn’t send me away, dear Cleve, I’m in such 
awful trouble. Every thing has gone wrong 
with us at Hazelden. You know that quarry- 
ing company — the slates — that odious fellow, 
Larkin, led him into, before the election — and 
all the other annoyances began.” 

. “You mean the Llandrwyd company?” 

“ Yes ; so I do.” 

“But that’s quite ruined, you know. Sit 
down.” 

“I know. He has lost — frightfully — and 
Mr. Etherage must pay up ever so much in calls 
beside ; and unless he can get it on a mortgage 
of the Windermore estate, he can’t possibly pay 
them — and I’ve been trying, and the result is 
just this — they won’t lend it anywhere till the 
litigation is settled.” 

“ Well, what can I do ?” said Cleve, yawning 
stealthily into his hand, and looking very tired. 
I’m afraid these tragic conferences of Tom Sed- 
ley’s did not interest Cleve very much ; rather 
bored him, on the contrary. 

“ They won’t lend, I say, while this litigation 
is pending.” 

“Depend upon it they won’t,” said Cleve. 

‘ ‘ And in the mean time, you know, Mr. Eth- 
erage would be ruined.” 

“Well, I see ; but, I say again, what can I 
do?” 

“ I want you to try if any thing can be done 
with Lord Verney,” said Tom, beseechingly. 

“ Talk to my uncle ? I wish, dear Tom, you 
could teach me how to do that.” 

“It can’t do any harm, Cleve — it can’t,” 
urged Tom Sedley, piteously. 

“Nor one particle of good. You might as 
well talk to that picture — I do assure you, you 
might.” 

“But it could be no pleasure to him to ruin 
Mr. Etherage!” 


“ I’m not so sure of that ; between ourselves, 
forgiving is not one of his weaknesses.” 

“But I say it’s quite impossible — an old 
family, and liked in the county — it would be a 
scandal forever !” pleaded Tom Sedley, distract- 
edly. 

“ Not worse than that business of Booth Fan- 
shawe,” said Cleve, looking down; “no, he 
never forgives any thing. I don’t think he per- 
ceives he’s taking a revenge; he has not rnind 
enough for repentance,” said Cleve, who was 
not in good humor with his uncle just then. 

“Won’t you try? you’re such an eloquent 
fellow, and there’s really so much to be said.” 

“ I do assure you, there’s no more use than 
in talking to the chimney-piece ; but if you 
make a point of it, I will ; but, by Jove, you 
could hardly choose a worse advocate just now, 
for he’s teasing me to do what I carCt do. If 
you heard my miserable story, it would make 
you laugh ; it’s like a thing in a petit comedie, 
and it’s breaking my heart.” 

“Well, then, you’ll try — won’t you try?” 
said Tom, overlooking his friend’s description 
of his own troubles. 

“Yes ; as you desire it. I’ll try ; but I don’t 
expect the slightest good from it, and possibly 
some mischief,” he replied. 

“ A thousand thanks, my dear Cleve ; I’m 
going down to-night. Would it be too much 
to ask you for a line, or, if it’s good news, a tel- 
egram to Lluinan?” 

“ I may safely promise you that, I’m sorry to 
say, without risk of trouble. You mustn’t think 
me unkind, but it would be cruel to let you hope 
when there is not, really,- a chance.” 

So Tom drove away to his club, to write his 
daily love-letter to Agnes Etherage, in time for 
post ; and to pen a few lines for old Vane Eth- 
erage, and try to speak comfortably to that 
family, over whose roof had gathered an awful 
storm. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

“That night a child might understand 
The de’il had business on his hand.” 

I ENDED my last chapter with mention of a 
metaphoric storm ; but a literal storm broke 
over the city of London on that night, such as 
its denizens remembered for many a day after. 
The lightning seemed, for more than an hour, 
the continuous pulsations of light from a sul- 
phurous furnace, and the thunder pealed with 
the cracks and rattlings of one long roar of ar- 
tillery. The children, waked by the din, cried 
in their beds in terror, and Sarah Rumble got 
her dress about her, and said her prayers in 
panic. 

After a while the intervals between the awful 
explosions were a little more marked, and Miss 
Rumble’s voice could be heard by the children, 
comforting and re-assuring in the brief lulls ; al- 
though had they known what a fright their com- 
forter was herself in, their confidence in her 
would have been impaired. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


143 


Perhaps there was a misgiving in Sarah 
Rumble’s mind that the lightnings and thunders 
of irate heaven were invoked by the presence of 
her mysterious lodger. Was even she herself 
guiltless, in hiding under her roof-tree that im- 
I)ious old sinner, whom Rosemary Court dis- 
gorged at dead of night, as the church-yard does 
a ghost — about whose past history — whose 
doings and whose plans, except that they were 
wicked — she knew no more than about those of 
an evil spirit, had she chanced, in one of her 
spectre-seeing moods, to spy one moving across 
the lobby. 

His talk was so cold and wicked ; his temper 
so fiendish ; his nocturnal disguises and out- 
goings so obviously pointed to secret guilt ; and 
his relations with the meek Mr. Larkin, and with 
those potent Jews, who, grumbling and sullen, 
yet submitted to his caprices, as genii to those 
of the magician who has the secret of command 
— that Mr. Dingwell had in her eyes something 
of a supernatural horror surrounding him. In 
the thunder-storm, Sarah Rumble vowed secretly 
to reconsider the religious propriety of harboring 
this old man ; and amid these qualms, it was 
with something of fear and anger that, in a si- 
lence between the peals of the now subsiding 
storm, she heard the creak of his shoe upon the 
stair. 

That even on such a n^ght, with the voice of 
divine anger in the air, about his ears, he could 
not forego his sinister excursions, and for once 
at these hours remain decorously in his rooms ! 
Her wrath overcame her fear of him. She would 
not have her house burnt and demolished over 
her head, with thunder-bolts, for his doings. 

She went forth, with her candle in her hand, 
and stood at the turn of the banister, confront- 
ing Mr. Dingwell, who, also furnished with a 
candle, was now about midw'ay down the last 
flight of stairs. 

“ Egeria, in the thunder !” exclaimed the 
hard, scoffing tones of Mr. Dingwell; whom, 
notwithstanding her former encounter with him, 
she would hardly have recognized in his ugly 
disguise. 

“A hoffie night for any one to go out, sir,” 
she said, rather sternly, with a courtesy at the 
same time. 

“ Hoffie, is it?” said Mr. Dingwell, amused, 
wdth mock gravity. 

“The hoffiest, sir, I think I hever ’ave re- 
membered.” 

“Why, ma’am, it isn’t raining; I put my 
hand out of the window. There’s none of that 
hoffie rain, ma’am, that gives a fellow rheu- 
matism. I hope there’s no unusual fog — is 
there ?” 

“ There^ sir;” exclaimed she, as a long and 
loud peal rattled over Rosemary Court, with a 
blue glare through the lobby window and the 
fan-light in the hall. She paused, and lifted her 
hand and eyes till it subsided, and then mur- 
mured an ejaculation. 

“I like thunder, my dear. It reminds me 
of your name, dear Miss Rumble ;” and he pro- 


longed the name wdth a rolling pronunciation. 
“ Shakespeare, you know, who says every thing 
better than any one else in the world, makes 
that remarkable old gentleman. King Lear, say, 

‘ Thunder, rumble thy belly full!’ Of course, 1 
would not say that in a drawing-room, or to 
you ; but kings are so refined that they may 
say things we can’t, and a genius like Shake- 
speare hits it off.” 

“I w'ould not go out, sir, on such a night, 
except I was very sure it was about something 
good I was a-going,” said Miss Rumble, very 
pale. 

“ You labor under electro-phobia, my dear 
ma’am, and mistake it for piety. I’m not a bit 
afraid of that sort of artilleiy, madam. Here 
we are, two or three millions of people in this 
town ; and two or three millions of shots, and 
we’ll see by the papers, I venture to say, not one 
shot tells. Don’t you think if Jupiter really 
meant mischief he could manage something 
better ?” 

“ I know, sir, it ought to teach us” — here she 
winced and paused ; for another glare, follow- 
ed by another bellow of thunder, “ long, loud, 
and deep,” interposed. “It should teach us 
some godly fear, if we has none by nature.” 

Mr. Dingwell looked at his watch. 

“Oh! Mr. Dingwell, it is hoffie. I wish 
you would only see it, sir. ” 

“>S'ee the thunder — eh ?” 

“ My poor mother. She always made us go 
down on our knees, and say our prayers — she 
would — while the thunder was.” 

“ You’d have had rather long prayers to-night. 
How your knees must have ached — egad ! I 
don’t wonder you dread it. Miss Sarah.” 

“And so I do, Mr. Dingwell, and so I should. 
Which I think all other sinners should dread it 
also.” 

“Meaning mef^ 

“And take warning of the wrath to come.” 

Here was another awful clap. 

“Hoffie it is, Mr. Dingwell, and a warnin’ to 
you, sent special, mayhap.” 

“ Hardly fair to disturb all the town for me, 
don’t you think ?” 

“You’re an old man, Mr. Dingwell.” 

“And you’re an old woman. Miss Sarah,” 
said he — not caring to be reminded of his years 
by other people, though he playfully called him- 
self on occasions an old “boy” — “as old as 
Abraham’s wife, whose namesake you are, 
though you have not lighted on an Abraham yet, 
nor become the mother of a great nation.” 

“ Old enough to be good enough, as my poor 
mother used to say, sir ; I am truly ; and sor- 
ry I am, Mr. Dingwell, to see you, on this hoffie 
night, bent on no good. I’m afraid, sir — oh, 
sir, sir, oughtn’t you think, with them sounds in 
your ears, Mr. Dingwell ?” 

“The most formidable thunder, my dear 
Sarah, proceeds from th^ silvery tongue of a 
woman. I can stand any other. It frightens 
me. So, egad, if you please. I’ll take refuge in 
the open air, and go out, and patter a prayer.” 


144 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


And with a nod and a smirk, having had 
enough fooling, he glided by Miss Rumble, who 
made him an appalled courtesy, and, setting 
down his candle on the hall -table, he said, 
touching his false whiskers with his finger-tips, 
‘ ‘ Mind, not a word about these — By — you’d 
better not.” 

She made another courtesy. He stopped and 
looked at her for an answer. 

“ Can’t you speak f* he said. 

“ No, sir — sure — not a word,” she faltered. 

“ Good girl !” he said, and opened the door, 
with his latch-key in his pocket, on the pitchy 
darkness, which instantaneously illuminated by 
the lightning, and another awful roar of thun- 
der broke over their heads. 

“ The voice of heaven in warning !” she mur- 
mured to herself, as she stood by the banisters, 
dazzled by the gleam, and listening to the rever- 
beration ringing in her ears. “ I pray God he 
may turn back yet.” 

He looked over his shoulder. 

‘ ‘ Another shot. Miss Rumble — missed again, 
you see.” He nodded, stepped out into the 
darkness, and shut the door. She heard his 
steps in the silence that followed, traversing the 
flags of the court. 

“ Oh dear! but I wish he was gone, right 
out — a hofile old man he is. There’s a weight 
on my conscience like, and a fright in my heart, 
there is, ever since he earned into the ’ouse. 
He is so presumptuous. To see that hold man 
made hup with them rings and whiskers, like a 
robber or a play-actor ! And defyin’ the bless- 
ed thunder of heaven — a walking hout, a mock- 
in’ and darin’ it, at these hours — oh law !” 

The interjection was due to another flash and 
peal. 

“ I wouldn’t wonder — no more I would — if 
that flash was the death o’ ’im !” 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

THE PALE HORSE. 

Sally Rumble knocked at the usual hour 
at the old man’s door next morning. 

“ Come in, ma’am,” ho answered, in a weary, 
peevish voice. ‘ ‘ Open the window - shutter, 
and give me some light, and hand me my watch, 
please.” 

All which she did. 

‘‘I have not closed my eyes from the time I 
lay down.” 

“Not ailing, sir, I hope?” 

“ Just allow me to count, and I’ll tell you, 
my dear.” 

He was trying his pulse. 

“Just as I thought, egad. The pale horse 
in the Revelation, ma’am, he’s running a gallop 
in my pulse ; it has been threatening the last 
three days, and now I’m in for it, and I should 
not be surprised. Miss Sally, if it ended in a fu- 
neral in onr alley.” 

“ God forbid, sir.” 


“Amen, with all my heart. Ay, the pale 
horse ; my head’s splitting ; oblige me with the 
looking-glass, and a little less light will answer. 
Thank you — very good. Just draw the cur- 
tain open at the foot of the bed ; please, hold it 
nearer — thank you. Ye», a ghost, ma’am — ha, 
ha — at last, I do suppose. My eyes, too — I’ve 
seen pits, with the water drying up, hollow — ay, 
ay; sunk — and — now — did you see? Well, 
look at my tongue — here” — and he made the dem- 
onstration ; ‘ ‘ you never saw a worse tongue 
than tliat^ I fancy ; that tongue, ma’am, is elo- 
quent, I think.” 

“Please God, sir, you’ll soon be better.” 

“ Draw the curtain a bit more ; the light falls 
oddly, or — does it ? — my face. Did you ever 
see, ma’am, a face so nearly the color of a cof- 
fin plate ?” 

‘ ‘ Don’t be talking, sir, please, of no such 
thing,” said Sally Rumble, taking heart of grace, 
for women generally pluck up a spirit when they 
see a man floored by sickness. I’ll make you 
some whey or barley-water, or would you like 
some weak tea better ?” 

“ Ay ; will you draw the curtain close again, 
and take away the looking-glass ? Thanks. I 
believe I’ve drank all the water in the carafe. 
Whey — well, I suppose it’s the right thing ; 
caudle when we’re coming iw, and whey ma’am, 
when we’re going out. Baptism of Infants, 
Burial of the Dead ! My poor mother, how 
she did put us through the Prayer-Book, and Bi- 
ble — Bible. Dear me.” 

“ There’s a very good man, sir, please — the 
Rev. Doctor Bartlett, though he’s gone rather old. 
He came in, and read a deal, and prayed, every 
day with my sister when she was sick, poor 
thing.” 

“Bartlett? What’s his Christian name? 
You need not speak loud — it plays the devil 
with my head.” 

“ The Rev. Thomas Bartlett, please, sir.” 

“Of Jesus ?” 

“ What, sir, please?” 

“Jesus College.^" 

“Don’t know, I’m sure, sir.” 

“Is he old?” 

“Yes, sir, past seventy.” 

“Ha — well I don’t care a farthing about 
him,” said Mr. Dingwell. 

“Will you, please, have in the apothecary, 
sir? I’ll fetch him directly, if you wish.” 

“No — no apothecary, no clergyman; I don’t 
believe in the Apostles’ Creed, ma’am, and I do 
believe in the jokes about apothecaries. If I’m 
to go, I’ll go quietly, if you please.” 

Honest Sally Rumble was heavy at heart to 
see this old man, who certainly did look ghast- 
ly enough to suggest ideas of the undertaker 
and the sexton, in so unsatisfactoiy a plight as 
to his immortal part. Was he a Jew ? — there 
wasn’t a hair on his chin — or a Roman Catho- 
lic? — or a member of any one of those multi- 
tudinous forms of faith which she remembered 
in a stout volume, adorned with wood-cuts, and 
entitled “ A Dictionary of all Religions,” in 


THE TENANTS OF MALOKY. 


145 


the back parlor of her granduncle, the tallow- 
chandler ? 

Give me a glass of cold water, ma’am,” 
said the subject of her solicitude. “Thank 
YOU — that’s the best drink. Slop^ I think you 
call it, a sick man can swallow.” 

Sally Eumble coughed a little, and fidgeted, 
and at last she said: “Please, sir, would you 
wish I should fetch any other sort of a minis- 
ter ?” 

“Don’t plague me, pray; I believe in the 
prophet Rabelais and je nUen vais chercher un 
grand pent kre — the two great chemists. Death, 
who is going to analyze, and Life, to re-combine 
me. I tell you, ma’am, my head is splitting; 
I’m very ill ; I’ll talk no more.” 

She hesitated. She lingered in the room, 
in her great perplexity ; and Mr. Dingwell lay 
back, with a groan. 

‘ ‘ I’ll tell you what you may do ; go down to 
your landlord’s office, and be so good as to say 
to either of those d — d Jew fellows — I don’t 
care which — that I am as you see me ; it 
mayn’t signify, it may blow over ; but I’ve an 
idea it is serious ; and tell them I said they had 
better know that I am very ill, and that I’ve 
taken no step about it.” 

With another weary groan Mr. Dingwell let 
himself down on his pillow, and felt worse for 
his exertion, and very tired and stupid, and 
odd about the head, and would have been very 
glad to fall asleep ; and with one odd pang of 
fear, sudden and cold, at his heart, he thought, 
“I’m going to die at last — I’m going to die at 
last — I’m going to die.” 

The physical nature in sickness acquiesces 
in death ; it is the instructed mind that recoils ; 
and the more versed about the unseen things 
of futurity, unless when God, as it were, pre- 
maturely glorifies it, the more awful it recoils. 

Mr. Dingwell was not more afraid than other 
sinners who have lived for the earthy part of 
their nature, and have taken futurity pretty 
much for granted, and are now going to test by 
the stake of themselves the value of their loose 
guesses. 

No ; he had chanced a great many things, 
and they had turned out for the most part bet- 
ter than he expected. Oh ! no ; the whole 
court, and the adjoining lanes, and, in short, 
the whole city of London, must go as he would 
— lots of company, it was not to be supposed it 
was any thing very bad — and he was so devil- 
ish tired, 02;er-fatigued — queer — worse than sea- 
sickness — that headache — fate — the change — an 
end — what was it? At all events, a rest, a 
sleep — sleep — could not be very bad ; lots of 
sleep, sir, and the chance — the chance — oh, 
yes, things go pretty well, and I have not had 
my good luck yet. I wish I could sleep a bit 
— yes, let kingdom-come be sleep” — and so 
a groan, and the brain duller, and more pain, 
and the immense fatigue that demands the enor- 
mous sleep. 

When Sarah Rumble returned, Mr. Dingwell 
seemed, she thought, a great deal heavier. He 
K 


made no remark, as he used to do, when she 
entered the room. She came and stood by the 
bedside, but he lay with his eyes closed, not 
asleep ; she could see by the occasional motion 
of his lips, and the fidgety change of his pos- 
ture, and his weary groanings. She waited for 
a time in silence. 

“Better, sir?” she half whispered, after a 
minute or two. 

“No,” he said, wearily. 

Another silence followed, and then she ask- 
ed, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Dingwell, 
sir?” 

“Yes — water.” 

So l^e drank a very little, and lay down again. 

Miss Sarah Rumble stayed in the room, and 
nearly ten minutes passed without a word. 

“ What did he say ?” demanded Mr. Ding- 
well so abruptly that Sarah Rumble fancied he 
had been dreaming. 

“Who, sir, please?” 

“The Jew — landlord,” he answered. 

“ Mr. Levi’s a-coming up, sir, please — he ex- 
pected in twenty minutes,” replied she. 

Mr. Dingwell groaned ; and two or three 
minutes more elapsed, and silence seemed to 
have re-established itself in the darkened cham- 
ber, when Mr. Dingwell raised himself up with 
a sudden alacrity, and said he — 

“ Sarah Rumble, fetch me my desk.” Which 
she did, from his sitting-room. 

“ Put your hand under the bolster, and you’ll 
find two keys on a ring, and a pocket-book. 
Yes. Now, Sarah Rumble, unlock that desk. 
Very good. Put out the papers on the coverlet 
before me; first bolt the door. Thank you, 
ma’am. There are a parcel of letters among 
those, tied across with a red silk cord — just so. 
Put them in my hand — thank you — and place 
all the rest back again neatly — neatly, if you 
please. Now lock the desk; replace it, and 
come here ; but first give me pen and ink, and 
bolt the door again.” 

And as she did so he scrawled an address 
upon the blank paper in which these letters 
were wrapt. 

The brown visage of his grave landlady was 
graver than ever, as she returned to listen for 
farther orders. 

“ Mrs. Sarah Rumble, I take you for an hon- 
est person ; and as I may die this time, I make 
a particular request of you — take this little 
packet, and slip it between the feather-bed and 
the mattress, as near the centre as your arm 
will reach — thank you — remember it’s there. 
If I die, ma’am, you’ll find a ten-pound note 
wrapped about it, which I give to you; you 
need not thank — that will do. The letters ad- 
dressed as they are you will deliver, without 
showing them, or saying one word to any one but 
to the gentleman himself, into whose own 
hands you must deliver them. You under- 
stand?” 

“Yes, sir, please; I’m listening.” 

“Well, attend. There are two Jew gentle- 
men — your landlord, Mr. Levi, and the old Jew, 


146 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


who have been with me once or twice — you 
know them ; that makes two ; and there is Mr. 
Larkin, the tall gentleman who has been twice 
here with them, with the lavender waistcoat and 
trowsers, the eye-glass with the black ribbon, 
the black frock coat — heigho! oh, dear, my 
head ! — the red grizzled whiskers, and bald 
head.” 

“The religious gentleman, please, sir?” 

“ Exactly ; the religious gentleman. Well, 
attend. The two Jews and the religious gentle- 
man together make three ; and those three gen- 
tlemen are all robbers." 

“ What, sir?” 

Robbers — robbers! Don’t you know what 
‘ robbers' means ? They are all three robbers. 
Now, I don’t think they’ll want to fiddle with 
my money till I’m dead.” 

“ Oh, Lord, sir!” 

“‘Oh, Lord!’ of course. That will do. 
They won’t touch my money till I’m dead, if 
they trust you ; but they will want my desk — 
at least Larkin will. I shan’t be able to look 
after things, for my head is very bad, and I 
shall be too drowsy — soon knocked up ; so give 
’em the desk, if they ask for it, and these keys 
from under the pillow ; and if they ask you if 
there are any other papers, say no ; and don't 
you tell them one word about the letters you’ve 
put between the beds here. If you betray me 
— you’re a religious woman — yes — and believe 
in God — may God d — n you ; and He will, for 
you’ll be accessory to the villainy of those three 
miscreants. And now I’ve done what in me 
lies ; and that is all — my last testament.” 

And Mr. Dingwell lay down wearily. Sarah 
Rumble knew that he was very ill ; she had at- 
tended people in fever and seen them die. Mr. 
Dingwell was already perceptibly worse. As 
she was coming up with some whey, a knock 
came to the door, and opening it she saw Mr. 
Levi, with a very surly countenance, and his 
dark eyes blazing fiercely on her. 

“ How’sh Dingwell now?” he demanded, 
before he had time to enter and shut the door ; 
“ zrorse, is he?” 

“Well, he’s duller, sir.” 

“ In his bed ? Shut the door.” 

‘ ‘ Yes, sir, please. Didn’t get up this morn- 
ing. He expected you two hours ago, sir.” 

Levi nodded. 

“ What doctor did you fetch ?” he asked. 

“No doctor, please, sir. I thought you and 
him would choose.” 

Levi made no answer ; so she could not tell 
by his surly face, which underwent no change, 
whether he approved or not. He looked at his 
watch. 

“ Larkin wasn’t here to-day ?” 

“Mr. Larkin? No, sir, please.” 

“ Show me Dingwell’s room, till I have a 
look at him,” said the Jew, gloomily. 

So he followed her up stairs, and entered the 
darkened room without waiting for any invita- 
tion, and went to the window, and pulled open 
a bit of the shutter. 


“What’s it for?” grumbled Dingwell indis- 
tinctly from his bed. 

“ So you’ve bin and done it, you have,” said 
the J ew, walking up with his hands in his pock- 
ets, and eyeing him from a distance as he might 
a glandered horse. 

Dingwell was in no condition to retort on 
this swarthy little man, who eyed him with a 
mixture of disgust and malignity. 

“ How long has he been thish way,” said the 
Jew, glowering on Sarah Rumble. 

“ Only to-day in bed, please, sir ; but he has 
bin lookin’ awful bad this two or three days, 
sir.” 

“ Do you back it ^or fever f" 

“ I think it’s fever, sir.” 

“I s’pose you’d twig fever fasht enough? 
Sheen lotsh of fever in your time?” 

“Yes, sir, please.” 

“It ish fever, ten to one in fifties. Black 
death going, ma’am — my luck! Look at him 
there, d — n him, he’sh got it.” 

Levi looked at him surlily for a while with 
eyes that glowed like coals. 

“ This comsh o’ them d — d holes you’re al- 
ways a-going to ; there’s always fever and every 
thing there, you great old buck goat.” 

Dingwell made an effort to raise himself, and 
mumbled, half awake — 

“ Let me — I’ll talk to him — how dare you — 
when I’m better — quiet'^ — and he laid down his 
head again. 

“When you are, you cursed sink. Look at 
all we’ve lost by you.” 

He stood looking at Dingwell savagely. 

“ He’ll die," exclaimed he, making an angry 
nod, almost a butt, with his head toward the 
patient, and he repeated his prediction with a 
furious oath. 

“See, you’ll send down to the apothecary’s 
for that chloride of lime, and them vinegars and 
things — or — no ; you must wait here, for Larkin 
will come; and don’t you let him go, mind. 
Me and Mr. Goldshed will be here in no time. 
Tell him the doctor’s coming ; and us — and I’ll 
send up them things from the apothecary, and 
you put them all about in plates on the floor 
and tables. Bad enough to lose our money, and 
d — bad ; but I won’t take this — come out o’ 
this room — if I can help.” 

And he entered the drawing-room, shutting 
Dingwell’s door, and spitting on the floor, and 
then he opened the window. 

“ He’ll die — do you think he’ll die ?” he ex- 
claimed again. 

“He’s in the hands of God, sir,” said Sally 
Rumble. 

“He won^ be long there — he’ll die — Isay he 
will — by — he will;” and the little Jew stamped 
on the floor, and clapped his hat on his head, 
and ran down the stairs, in a paroxysm of busi- 
ness and fury. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


147 


CHAPTER LIX. 

IK WlllCn HIS FRIENDS VISIT THE SICK. 

Mr, Levi, when Sarah Rumble gave him 
lier lodger’s message, did not, as he said, “ vally 
it a turn of a half-penny.” He could not be 
very ill if he could send his attendant out-of- 
doors, and deliver the terms in which his mes- 
sages were to be communicated. Mr. Levi’s 
diagnosis was that Mr. Dingwell’s attack was 
in the region of the purse or pocket-book, and 
that the “ dodge” was simply to get the partners 
and Mr, Larkin together for the purpose of ex- 
tracting more money, 

Mr. Larkin was in town, and he had written 
to that gentleman’s hotel, also he had told Mr. 
Goldshed, who took the same view, and laughed 
in his lazy diapason over the weak invention of 
the enemy. 

Levi accordingly took the matter very easily, 
and hours had passed before his visit, which was 
made pretty late in the afternoon, and he was 
smiling over his superior sagacity in seeing 
through Dingwell’s little dodge, as he walked 
into the court, when an officious little girl, in 
her mother’s bonnet, running by his knee, said 
pompously — 

“You’d better not go there, sir.” 

“ And why sho, chickabiddy ?” inquired Mr. 
Levi, derisively. 

“ No, you better not ; there’s a gentleman as 
has took the fever there.” 

“Where?” said Mr. Levi, suddenly inter- 
ested. 

“In Mrs. Rumble’s.” 

“ Is there ? — how do you know ?” 

“Lucy Maria Rumble, please, sir, she told 
me, and he’s very had.''- 

The fashion of Levi’s countenance was 
changed as he turned from her suddenly, and 
knocked so sharply at the door that the canary, 
hanging from the window in his cage over the 
way, arrested his song, and was agitated for an 
hour afterward. 

So Mr. Levi was now thoroughly aroused to 
the danger that had so suddenly overcast his 
hopes, and threatened to swallow in tlm bottom- 
less sea of death the golden stake he iiad ven- 
tured. 

It was not, nevertheless, until eight o'clock 
in the evening, so hard a thing is it to collect 
three given men, [what then must be the office 
of whip to Whig or Tory side of the House ?] 
that the two Jews and Mr. Larkin were actually 
assembled in Mr. Dingwell’s bedroom, now reek- 
ing with disinfectants and prophylactic fluids. 

The party were in sore dismay, for the inter- 
esting patient had begun to maunder very pre- 
posterously in his talk. They listened, and 
heard him say — 

“That’s a lie — I say. I’d nail his tongue to 
the post. Bells won’t ring for it — lots of bells 
in England ; you’ll not find any here, though.” 

And then it went off into a mumbling, and 
Mr. Goldshed, who was listening disconsolately, 
exclaimed, “My eycsh !” 


“ Well, how do you like it, gov’nor? I said 
he’d walk the plank, and so he will,” said Levi. 
“He will — he will;” and Levi clenched his 
white teeth, with an oath. 

“ There, Mr. Levi, pray, pray, none of that," 
said Mr. Larkin. 

The three gentlemen were standing in a row, 
from afar off observing the patient, with an in- 
tense scrutiny of a gloomy and, I may say, a 
savage kind. 

“ He was an unfortunate agent — no energy, 
except for his pleasures,” resentfully resumed 
Mr. Larkin, who was standing farthest back of 
the three speculators. “Indolent, impractica- 
ble enough to ruin fifty cases ; and now here he 
lies in a fever, contracted, you think, Mr. Levi, 
in some of his abominable haunts.” 

Mr. Larkin did not actually say “ d — him,” 
but he threw a very dark, sharp look upon his 
acquaintance in the bed. 

“ Abawminable, to be sure, abawminable. 
Bah ! It’s all true. The hornies has their eye 
on him these seven weeks past — curse the 
beasht,” snarled Mr. Levi, clenching his fists in 
his pockets, “ and every da — a — am muff that 
helped to let me in for this here rotten busi- 
ness.” 

“ Meaning me, sir ?” said Mr. Larkin, flushing 
up to the top of his head a fierce pink. 

Levi answered nothing, and Mr. Larkin did 
not press his question. 

It is very easy to be companionable and good- 
humored while all goes pleasantly. It is fail- 
ure, loss, and disappointment that try the so- 
ciable qualities ; even those three amiable men 
felt less amicable under the cloud than they had 
under the sunshine. 

So they all three looked in their several ways 
angrily and thoughtfully at the gentleman in the 
typhus fever, who said rather abruptly — 

“She killed herself, sir; foolish ’oman ! 
Capital dancing, gentlemen ! Capital dancing, 
ladies ! Capital — capital — admirable dancing. 
God help us !” and so it sunk again into mum- 
bling. 

“Capital da-a-ancing, and who pays the 
piper ?” asked Mr. Goldshed, with a rather fero- 
cious sneer. “It has cost us five hundred to a 
thousand.” 

“ And a doctor,” suggested Levi. 

“Doctor, the devil! I say; I’ve paid through 
the nose,” or as he pronounced that organ 
through which his metallic declamation droned, 
noshe. “It’s Mr. Larkin’s turn now; it’s 
all da-a-am rot ; a warm fellow like you, Mr. 
Larkin, putting all the loss on me ; how can I 
sta-a-an’ that — sta-a-an’all the losses, and share 
the profits — ba-a-ah, sir ; that couldn't pay no- 
how.” 

“I think,” said Mr. Larkin, “ it maybe ques- 
tionable how far a physician would be, just in 
this imminent stage of the attack, at all useful 
or even desirable ; but. Miss Rumble, if I un- 
derstand you, he is quite compos — I mean, quite, 
so to speak, in his senses, in the early part of 
the day.” 


148 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


He paused, and Miss Rumble from the other 
side of the bed contributed her testimony. 

“ Well, that being so,” began Mr. Larkin, 
but stopped short as Mr. Dingwell took up his 
parable, forgetting how wide of the mark the 
sick man’s interpolations were. 

‘‘There’s a vulture over there,” said Mr. 
Dingwell’s voice, with an unpleasant distinct- 
ness; “you just tie a turban on a stick,” and 
then he was silent. 

Mr. Larkin cleared his voice and resumed — 

“ Well, as I was saying, when the attack, 
whatever it is, has developed itself, a medical 
man may possibly be available; but in the 
mean ti’me, as he is spared the possession of his 
faculties, and we all agree, gentlemen, whatever 
particular form of faith may be respectively 
ours, that some respect is due to futurity ; I 
would say that a clergyman, at all events, might 
make him advantageously a visit to-morrow, and 
afford him an opportunity at least of consider- 
ing the interests of his soul. ” 

“ Oh ! da-a-am his shoul, it’s his body. We 
must try to keep him together,” said Mr. Gold- 
shed impatiently. “ If he dies the money’s all 
lost, every shtiver; if he don’t, he’s a sound 
speculation ; we must raise a doctor among us, 
Mr. Larkin.” 

“It is highly probable, indeed, that before 
long the unfortunate gentleman may require 
medical advice,” said Mr. Larkin, who had a 
high opinion of the “speculation,” whose pulse 
was at this moment unfortunately at a hundred 
and twenty. “The fever, my dear sir, if such 
it be, will have declared itself in a day or two ; 
in the mean time, nursing is all that is really 
needful, and Miss Rumble, I have no doubt, 
will take care that the unhappy gentleman is 
properly provided in that respect. ” 

The attorney, who did not want at that mo- 
ment to be drawn into a discussion on contrib- 
uting to expenses, smiled affectionately on Miss 
Rumble, to whom he assigned the part of good 
Samaritan. 

“ He’ll want some one at night, sir, please ; I 
could not undertake myself, sir, for both day and 
night,” said brown Miss Rumble, very quietly. 

“ There ! That’sh it ! ” exclaimed Levi, with 
a vicious chuckle, and a scowl, extending his 
open hand energetically toward Miss Rumble, 
and glaring from Mr. Larkin to his partner. 

“Nothing but down with the dust. Gold- 
shed & Levi. Bleed like a pair o’ beashtly 
pigs, Goldshed & Levi, do ! There’s death 
in that fellow’s face, I say. It’s all bosh, doc- 
tors and nurses ; throwing good money after bad, 
and then, five pounds to bury him, drat him !” 

“Bury ? ho ! no, the parish, the work-houshe, 
the authorities shall bury him,” said Mr. Gold- 
shed, briskly. 

“Dead as a Mameluke, dead as a Janizary 
bowstrung !” exclaimed Mr. Dingwell, and went 
off into an indistinct conversation in a foreign 
language. 

“ Stuff a stocking down his throat, will you ?” 
urged Mr. Levi ; a duty, however, which no one 


'Undertook. “I see that cove’s booked; he 
looks just like old Solomons looked when he 
had it. It isn’t no use ; all rot, throwing good 
money arter bad, I say ; let him be ; let him 
die.” 

“I’ll not let him die; no, he shan’t. I’ll 
make him pay. I made the Theatre of Fasci- 
nation pay,” said Mr. Goldshed serenely, al- 
luding to a venture of his devising, by which 
the partnership made ever so much money in 
sf ite of a prosecution and heavy fines and other 
expenses. “ I say ’tisn’t my principle to throw 
up the game, by no means — no — with my ball 
in hand and the stakes in the pocket — never 

Here Mr. Goldshed wagged his head slowly 
with a solemn smile, and Mr. Dingwell, from 
the bed, said — 

“ Move it, will you? That way — I wish 
you’d help — b-bags, sir — sacks, sir — awfully hard 
lying — full of cars and noses — egad ! — why not? 
— cut them all off, I say. D — n the Greeks ! 
Will you move it? Do move that sack — it 
hurts his ribs — ribs — I never got the bastinado.” 

“Not but what you deserved it,” remarked 
Mr. Levi. 

And Mr. Dingwell’s babbling went on, but 
too indistinctly to be unraveled. 

“I say,” continued Mr. Goldshed, sublimely, 
“ if that ’ere speculative thing in the bed there 
comes round, and gets all square and right. I’ll 
make him pay. I’m not funked — who’s afraid ? 
— wiry old brick !” 

“I think so,” acquiesced Mr. Larkin with 
gentle solemnity ; “ Mr. Dingwell is certainH, 
as you say, wiry. There are many things in 
his fiivor, and Providence, Mr. Goldshed — Prov- 
idence is over us all.” 

“Providence, to be sure,” said Mr. Goldshed, 
who did not disdain help from any quarter. 
“ Where does he keep his money, ma’am ?” 

“Under his bolster, please, sir — under his 
head,” answered Sarah Rumble. 

“ Take it out, please,” said Mr. Goldshed. 

She hesitated. 

“ Give the manhish money, woman, ca-a-an’t 
you ?” bawled Mr. Levi fiercely, and extending 
his arm^ward the bed. 

“You had better — yes, ma’am, the money 
belongs to Messrs. Goldshed & Levi,” said 
Mr. Larkin, interposing in the character of the 
vir pietate gravis, 

Sally Rumble, recollecting Mr. Dingwell’s di- 
rection, “Let ’em have the money, too, if they 
press for it,” obeyed and slid her hand "under 
his bolster, and under his head, from the other 
side, wliere she was standing ; and Dingwell, 
feeling the motion, I suppose, raised his head 
and stared with sunken eyes dismally at the 
three gentlemen, whom he plainly did not rec- 
ognize, or possibly saw in the shapes of foxes, 
wolves, or owls, which ^sop would have meta- 
phorically assigned them, and with a weary 
groan he closed his wandering eyes again, and 
sank down on the pillow. 

Miss Rumble drew forth a roll of bank-notes 
wit‘h a string tied round them. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


149 


Take the money, Levi,” said Goldshed, 
drawing a step backward. 

“ Take it yourself, gov’nor,” said Levi, wav- 
ing back Miss Sally Rumble, and edging back a 
little himself. 

‘‘Well,” said Goldshed, quietly, “ I see you 
are afraid of that infection.” 

“ I believe you,” answered Levi. 

“ So am I,” said Goldshed, uneasily. 

“And no wonder !” added Mr. Larkin, antic- 
ipating himself an invitation to accept the ques- 
tionable trust. 

“Put them notes down on the table there,” 
said Mr. Goldshed. 

And the three gentlemen eyed the precious 
roll of paper as I have seen people at a chemi- 
cal lecture eye the explodable compounds on 
the professor’s table. 

“ I tell you what, ma’am,” said Goldshed, 

‘ ‘ you’ll please get a dry bottle and a cork, and 
put them notes into it, and cork it down, ma’am, 
and give it to Mr. Levi.” 

“And count them first, please. Miss Rumble 
— shan’t she, Mr. Goldshed?” suggested Mr. 
Larkin. 

“ What for ? — isn’t the money ours ?” howl- 
ed Mr. Levi, with a ferocious stare on the at- 
torney’s meek face. 

“ Only, Mr. Goldshed, with a view to dis- 
tinctness, and to prevent possible confusion in 
any future account,” said Mr. Larkin, who knew 
that Dingwell had got money from the Verneys, 
and thought that if there was any thing recov- 
ered from the wreck, he had as good a right to 
his salvage as another. 

Mr. Goldshed met his guileless smile with an 
ugly sneer, and said — 

“ Oh, count them, to be sure, for the gentle- 
man. It isn’t a ha’penny to me.” 

So Miss Rumble counted seventy-five pounds 
in bank-notes and four pounds in gold, two of 
which Mr. Goldshed committed to her in trust 
for the use of the patient, and the remainder 
were duly bottled and corked down according 
to Mr. Goldshed’s grotesque precaution, and in 
this enclosure Mr. Levi consented to take the 
money in hand, and so it was deposited for the 
night in the iron safe in Messrs. Goldshed & 
Levi’s office, to be uncorked in the morning by 
old Solomons, the cashier, who would, no doubt, 
be puzzled by the peculiarity of the arrangement, 
and with the aid of a corkscrew, lodged to the 
credit of the firm. 

Mr. Goldshed next insisted that Dingwell’s 
life, fortunately for that person, was too im- 
portant to the gentlemen assembled there to 
be trifled with ; and said that sage — 

“We’ll have the best doctor in London — six 
pounds’ worth of him — d’ye see ? And under 
him a clever young doctor to look in four times 
a day, and we’ll arrange with the young ’un on 
the"" principle of no cure no pay — that is, we’ll 
give fifty pounds this day six weeks, if the party 
in bed here is alive aJt that date.” 

Upon this basis I believe an arrangement 
was actually completed. The great Doctor 


Langley, when he called, and questioned Miss 
Rumble, and inspected the patient, told Mr. 
Levi, who was in waiting, that the old gentle- 
man had been walking about in a fever for more 
than a week before he took to his bed, and that 
the chances were very decidedly against his 
recovery. 

A great anxiety overcame Mr. Larkin like a 
summer cloud, and the serene sunshine of that 
religious mind was overcast with storm and 
blackness. For the recovery of Mr. Dingwell 
were oflfered up, in one synagogue at least, 
prayers as fervent as any ever made for that of 
our early friend Charles Surface, and it was plain 
that never was patriarch, saint, or hero mourn- 
ed as the venerable Mr. Dingwell would be, by 
at least three estimable men, if the fates were to 
make away with him on this critical occasion. 

The three gentlemen as they left his room on 
the evening I have been describing, cast their 
eyes upon Mr. Dingwell’s desk, and hesitated, 
and looked at one another, darkly, for a moment 
in silence. 

“ There’sh no reashon why we shouldn’t,” 
drawled Mr. Goldshed. 

“I object to the removal of the desk,” said 
Mr. Larkin, with a shake of his head, closing 
his eyes, and raising his hand as if about to 
pronounce a benediction on the lid of it. “ If 
he is spared it might become a very serious 
thing — I decidedly object.” 

“ Who want’sh to take this man’sh desk ?” 
drawled Mr. Goldshed, surlily. 

“Who want’sh to take it?” echoed Levi, 
and stared at him with an angry gape. 

“ But there will be no harm, I shay, in look- 
ing what paper’sh there,” continued Mr. Gold- 
shed. “ Does he get letters ?” 

“ Only two, sir, please, as I can remember, 
since he came here.” 

“Bypo-sht, or by ha-a-an’?” inquired Gold- 
shed. 

“By ’and, sir, please ; it was your Mr. Sol- 
omons as fetched ’em here, sir.” 

He lifted up the desk, swayed it gently, and 
shook it a little, looking at it as if it were a 
musical box about to strike up, and so set it 
down again softly. “ There’sh papersh in that 
box,” he hummed thoughtfully to himself. 

“ I think I may speak here,” said Mr. Lar- 
kin, looking up sadly and loftily, as he placed 
his hat upon his bald head, “with some little 
authority as a professional man — if in no higher 
capacity — and I may take upon myself to say, 
that by no possibility can the contents of that 
desk • affect the very simple and, in a certain 
sense, direct transactions in which our clients’ 
interests, and in a degree ours also, are in- 
volved, and I object on higher grounds still, I 
hope, to any irregularity as respects that desk.” 

“If you’re confident, Mr. Larkinsh, there’sh 
nothing in it can affect the bushiness we’re on, 
I would not give you a cancel’ Queen’s head 
for the lot.” 

“Perfectly confident, my dear Mr. Gold- 
shed.’* 


150 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


“ He’sh perfectly confident,” repeated Mr. 
Levi in his guv’nor’s ear, from over his shoul- 
der. 

“ Come along, then,” said Mr. Goldshed, 
shuffling slowly out of the room, with his hands 
in liis pockets. 

It’s agreed then, gentlemen, there’s no 
tampering with the desk?” urged Mr. Larkin 
entreatingly. 

“ Shertainly,” said Mr. Goldshed, beginning 
to descend the stairs. 

“ Shertainly,” repeated Mr. Levi, following 
him. 

And the three gentlemen, in grave and friend- 
ly guise, walked away together, over the flagged 
court. Mr. Larkin did not half like taking the 
arms of these gentlemen, but the quarter of the 
towri was not one where he was likely to meet 
any of either the spiritual or the terrestrial aris- 
tocracy with whom he desired specially to stand 
well. So he moved along conscious, not un- 
pleasantly, of the contrast which a high-bred 
gentleman must always present in juxtaposition 
with such persons as Goldshed & Levi. They 
walked through the dingy corridor called Cald- 
well Alley, and through Ivc’s Lane, and along 
the market, already flaring and glaring with 
great murky jets of gas wavering in the darken- 
ing stalls, and thence by the turn to the left 
into the more open street, where the cab-stand 
is, and then having agreed to dine together at 
the “ Three Roses” in Milk Lane in half an 
hour, the gentlemen parted — Messrs. Goldshed 
& Levi to fly in a cab to meet their lawyer at 
their offlce, and Mr. Larkin to fly westward to 
his hotel, to inquire for a letter which he ex- 
pected. So smiling they parted ; and, so soon 
as Mr. Larkin was quite out of sight, Mr. Levi 
descended from their cab, and with a few part- 
ing words which he murmured in Mr. Gold- 
shed’s ear, left him to drive away by himself, 
while he retraced his steps at his leisure to 
Rosemary Court, and finding the door of Miss 
Rumble’s house open, with Lucy Maria at it, 
entered and walked straight up to Mr. Ding- 
well’s drawing-room, with a bunch of small keys 
in his hand, in his coat-pocket. 

He had got just two steps into the room 
toward the little table on which the patient’s 
desk stood, when from the other side of that 
piece of furniture, and the now open desk, there 
rose up the tall form of Mr. J os. Larkin, of the 
Lodge. 

The gentlemen eyed one another for a few 
seconds in silence, for the surprise was great. 
Mr. Larkin did not even set down the parcel of 
letters, which he had been sorting like a hand 
at whist, when Mr. Levi had stepped in to di- 
vert his attention. 

“I thought, Mr. Larkinsh, I might as well 
drop in just to give you a lift,” said Levi, with 
an elaborate bow, a politeness, and a great 
smile, that rather embarrassed the good attor- 
ney. 

“ Certainly, Mr. Levi, I’m always happy to 
see you — always happy to see any man — I have 


never done any thing I am ashamed of, nor 
shrunk from any duty, nor do I mean to do so 
now.” 

“ Your hands looksh pretty full.” 

“Yes, sir, pretty tolerably full, sir,” said Mr. 
Larkin, placing the letters on the desk ; “ and 
I may add so do youi’s, Mr. Levi ; those keys, 
as you observe, might have given one a lift in 
opening this desk, had I not preferred the other 
course,” said Mr. Larkin loftily, “of simply re- 
questing Mr. Dingwell’s friend, the lady at 
present in charge of his papers, to afford me, at 
her own discretion, such access to the papers 
possibly affecting my client, as I may consider 
necessary or expedient, as his legal adviser.” 

“You have changed your view of your duty, 
something ; haven’t you, Mr. Larkinsh ?” 

“No, sir, no ; simply my action on a point 
of expediency. Of course, there was some 
weight, too, sir, in the suggestions made by a 
gentleman of Mr. Goldshed’s experience and 
judgment ; and I don’t hesitate to say that his 
— his ideas had their proper weight with me. 
And I may say, once for all, Mr. Levi, I’ll not 
be hectored, or lectured, or bullied by you, Mr. 
Levi,” added Mr. Larkin, in a new style, feel- 
ing, perhaps, that his logical and moral vein 
was not quite so happy as usual. 

“ Don’t frighten ush, Larkin, pray don’t, only 
just give me leave to see what them letters is 
about,” said Levi, taking his place by him; 
“ did you put any of them in your pocket?” 

“No, sir; upon my soul, Mr. Levi, I did no 
such thing,” said Mr. Larkin, with a heartiness 
that had an effect upon the Jew. “ The occa- 
sion is so serious that I hardly regret having 
used the expression,” said Mr. Larkin, who had 
actually blushed at his own oath. “ There was 
just one letter possibly worth looking at.” 

“ That da-a-am foolish letter you wrote him 
to Constantinople?” 

“I wrote him no foolish letter, sir. I wrote 
him no letter, sir, I should fear to have posted 
on the market cross, or- read from the pulpit, 
Mr. Levi. I only wonder, knowing all you do 
of Mr. Dingwell’s unfortunate temper, and reck- 
less habits of assertion, that you should attach 
the smallest weight to an expression thrown out 
by him in one of his diabolical and — and — la- 
mentable frenzies. As to my having abstracted 
a letter of his — an imputation at which I smile 
— I can, happily, cite evidence other than my 
own.” He waved his hand toward Miss Rum- 
ble. “ This lady has, happily, I will say, been 
in the room during my very brief examination 
of my client’s half-dozen papers. Pray, mad- 
am, have I taken one of these — or, in fact, put 
it in my pocket?” 

“No, sir, please,” answered Miss Rumble, 
who spoke in good faith, having, with a lively 
remembrance of Mr. Dingwell’s description of 
the three gentlemen who had visited the sick 
that day, as “ three robbers,” kept her eye very 
steadily upon the excellent Mr. Larkin, during 
the period of his search. 

Mr. Levi would have liked to possess that 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


151 


letter. It would have proved possibly a useful 
engine in the hands of the Firm in future deal- 
ings with the adroit and high-minded Mr. Lar- 
kin. It was not to be had, however, if it really 
existed at all; and when some more ironies 
and moralities had been fired off at both sides, 
the gentlemen subsided into their ordinary rela- 
tions, and ultimately went away together to dine 
on turtle, sturgeon, salmon, and I know not 
what meats, at the famous “Three Roses” in 
Milk Lane. 


CHAPTER LX. 

ME. DINGWELL THINKS OF AN EXCUKSION. 

If Mr. Dingwell had been the most interest- 
ing, beautiful, and, I will add, wealthy of human 
beings, instead of being an ugly and wicked old 
bankrupt, Messrs. Goldshed, Levi and Larkin 
could not have watched the progress of his com- 
plaint with greater trepidation, or hailed the 
first unequivocal symptoms of his recovery with 
more genuine delight. I doubt if any one of 
them would have experienced the same intense 
happiness at the restoration of wife, child or 
parent. 

They did not, it is true, re-assemble in 
Mr. Dingwell’s apartments in Rosemary Court. 
There was not one of those gentlemen who did 
not set a proper value upon his own life ; and 
they were content with the doctor’s report. In 
due course, the oracle pronounced Mr. Dingwell 
out of danger, but insisted on change of air. 

Well, that could be managed, of course. It 
must be managed, for did not the doctor say, 
that without it the patient might not ultimately 
recover. If it could have been dispensed with, 
the risk would have been wisely avoided. But 
Mr. Dingwell’s recovery depended on it, and 
Mr. Dingwell must be made to recover. 

Whither should they send him ? Stolen treas- 
ure or murdered body is jealously concealed by 
the malefactor ; but not more shrinkingly than 
was Mr. Dingwell by those gentlemen who had 
him in charge. Safe enough he was while he 
remained in his dingy seclusion in Rosemary 
Court, where he lay as snugly as Asmodeus in 
the magician’s phial, and sequre against all but 
some such accident as the irruption of the stu- 
dent Don Cleophas Leandro Peres Zambullo, 
through the sky-light. But where was to be 
found a rural habitation — salubrious and at the 
same time sufficiently secret. And if they did 
light upon one resembling that where the water- 
fiends played their pranks — 

“ On a wild moor, all brown and bleak, 

Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse, 

There stood a tenement antique — 

Lord Hoppergollop’s country house. 

“ Here silence reigned with lips of glue, 

And undisturbed, maintained her law. 

Save when the owl cried — ‘ Whoo ! whoo ! whoo !’ 

Or the hoarse crow croaked — ‘ Caw 1 caw I caw I’ ” 

If, I say, they did find so eligible a mansion 
for their purpose, was it likelj’ that their imprac- 
ticable and incorrigible friend, Mr. Dingwell, 


would consent to spend six weeks in the “ de- 
serted mansion” as patiently as we are told Mol- 
ly Dumpling did ? 

I think not. And when the doctor talked of 
country air, the patient joked peevishly about 
the “grove of chimneys,” and “ the sweet shady 
side of Pall Mall.” 

“I think, Mrs. Rumble,” said he, one day, 
“ I’m not going to die this bout at all events. 
I’m looking better, I think — eh ?” 

“Looking very bad, sir, please. I can’t see 
no improvement,” said Sarah Rumble. 

“ Well, ma’am, you try to keep my spirits up, 
thank you. I’m shut up too much — that’s the 
sole cause of it now. If I could creep out a bit 
at night.” 

“God forbid, sir.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am, again. I say if I could 
get out a little I should soon get my strength 
back again ; but sitting in this great padded 
chair I might as well be in bed ; can’t go out 
in the day-time you know — too many enemies. 
The owl’s been moulting, ma’am — devilish sick 
— the moulting owl. If the old bird could flut- 
ter out a bit. I’m living like a monk^ I was 
going to say — egad, I wish I was. Give me 
those d — d bitters ; they haven’t done me a bit 
of good — thanks.” 

“ If you was to go to the country, sir,” insin- 
uated Miss Sarah Rumble. 

“ Yes, if I was^ as you express it, I should die 
in a week. If air could have killed me, the 
curious atmosphere of this charming court would 
have killed me long ago. I’m not one of those 
air-plants, ma’am. What I want is a little fil- 
lip, ma’am — a little amusement — any thing out 
of this prison ; and I’m not going to squat on a 
moor, or to roost in a wood, to please a pack of 
fellows that don’t care if I W'ere on the tread- 
mill, provided they could take me out whenever 
they want me. My health, indeed! They 
simply want me out of the way. My health ! 
Their consideration for me is truly affecting. 
We’ll not mind the bitters, yet. It’s time for 
my claret.” 

He drank it, and seemed to doze for a little. 
Mrs. Rumble quickly settled the medicine bot- 
tles and other things that had been put out of 
their places, every now and then looking at the 
sunken face of the old man, in his death-like 
nap — his chin sunk on his breast, the stern 
carving of his massive forehead, the repulsive 
lines of a grim selfishness, and a certain evil 
shadow, made that face in its repose singularly 
unlovely. 

Suddenly he waked. 

“I say, Mrs. Rumble, I’ve been thinking — 
what about that old clergyman you mentioned 
— that Mr. Bartlett. I think I will see him — 
suppose he lectures me ; his hard words won’t 
break my bones, and I think he’d amuse me ; 
so you may as well get him in, any time— I 
don’t care when.” 

Sarah Rumble was only too glad to give her 
wicked tenant a chance, such as it was, and next 
day, at about one o’clock, a gentle-looking old 


152 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


clergjTnan, with thin white hair, knocked at his 
door, and was admitted. It was the Eev. 
Thomas Bartlett. 

“I can’t rise, sir, to receive you — you’ll ex- 
cuse me ; but I’m still very ill,” said Mr. Ding- 
well. 

“Pray don’t stir, sir,” said the clergyman. 

“I can’;,” said Mr. Dingwell. “Will you 
kindly sit in that chair, near the fire ? What 
I have to say is private, and if you please, we’ll 
speak very low. My head isn’t recovered yet.” 

“ Certainly,” said the old gentleman, placing 
himself as Dingwell wished. 

“ Thank you very much, sir. Now I can 
manage it. Isn’t your name Thomas, sir — the 
Keverend Thomas Bartlett?” said Mr. Ding- 
well, looking at him shrewdly from under his 
white eyebrows. 

“That’s my name, sir.” 

‘ '"My name’s Dingwell. You don’t remember ? 
I’ll try to bring it to your mind. About twenty- 
nine years ago you were one of the curates at 
St. Wyther’s in the Fields ?” 

“Yes, sir, I was,” answered the clergyman, 
fixing his eyes in turn inquisitively on him. 

“I was the witness — do you remember me, 
now — to the ceremony, when that unfortunate 
fellow, Yerney, married Miss — I have a note of 
her name — hang it! — Eebecca, was it? — Yes^ 
Rebecca — it was Eebecca Merv}^. You married 
Yerney to Miss Mervyn, and I witnessed it.”. 

“ I remember very well, sir, that a gentleman 
did accompany Mr. Yerney ; and I remember 
the marriage extremely well, because there oc- 
curred very distressing circumstances respecting 
that Mr. Yerney not very long after, which fixed 
that marriage in my mind ; but having seen you 
once only, sir, I can’t pretend to recollect your 
face.” 

“There has been some time, too, sir, since 
then,” said Mr. Dingwell, with a cynical sneer, 
and a shrug. “But I think I should have 
recognized you; that’s perhaps owing to my 
having a remarkably retentive memory for faces ; 
however, it’s of no great consequence here. It 
isn’t a matter of identification at all. I only 
want to know, as Yerney ’s dead, whether you 
can tell what has become of that poor lady, or 
can find any clue to her whereabouts — there was 
a baby — a little child — if they are still living.” 

“ She did write to me twice, sir, within a few 
years after the marriage. He treated her very 
ill, sir,” said the clergyman. 

“Infamously, I fancy,” said Dingwell ; “ and 
how long ago was that, sir?” 

“Oh! a long time; twenty — ay, five — ay, 
eight-and-twenty years since,” said the old gen- 
tleman. 

Dingwell laughed. 

His visitor stared. 

“Yes, it’s a good while,” said Mr. Dingwell; 
“and looking over that gulf, sir, you may fill 
your glass, and sing — 

‘“Many a lad I liked is dead, 

And many a lass grown old.’ 

Eight-and-twenty years ! Gad, sir, she’s had 


time to grow gray ; and to be dead and buried ; 
and to serve a handsome period of her term in 
purgatory. I forgot, though ; you don’t follow 
me there. I was thinking of the French cure, 
who made part of my journey here with me.” 

“No, sir; Church of England, thank God; 
the purest faith ; the most scriptural, I believe, 
on earth. You, sir, I assume, are of the same 
Church,” said he. 

“Well, I can’t say I am, sir ; nor a Catholic, 
nor a Quaker,” said the invalid. 

“ I hope, sir, there’s no tendency to rational- 
ism?” 

“ No, sir, I thank you ; to no ism whatso- 
ever invented by any other man ; Dingwellism 
for Dingwell ; Smithism for Smith. Every man 
has a right to his opinion, in my poor judgment.” 

“And pray, sir, if neither Eomanist nor 
Protestant, what are you ?” inquired the clergy- 
man, as having a right to ask. 

Porcus de gruge epicuri, at your service,” 
said the sick man, with a feeble smirk. 

“I had hoped, sir, it might have been for 
some profitable purpose you had sent for me,” 
said the disappointed pastor, 

“ Well, sir, I was baptized in the Church of 
England, although I don’t subscribe the Arti- 
cles; so I served in your regiment, you see, 
though I don’t wear the uniform any longer.” 

“I thought, sir, you might have wished some 
conversation upon religious subjects.” 

“And haven’t we had it, sir? — sorry we don’t 
agree. I’m too old to turn out of my own way ; 
but, though I can’t learn yours, I shall be happy 
to teach you something of mine, if you wish 
it.” 

“ I think, sir, as I have other calls to make,” 
said the old clergyman, much offended, and 
rising to take his leave as he spoke, “I had 
better wish you a good-afternoon.” 

“ Pray, sir, stay a moment ; I never knew a 
clergyman in such a hurry before to leave a sick 
man ; as no man knows, according to your 
theory, when he’s going to be converted — and 
how should I ? The mildew of death is whiten- 
ing each of us at this moment ; the last golden 
sands are running out. D — it, give me a 
chance.” 

This incongruous harangue was uttered so 
testily — even fiercely — that the good clergyman 
was puzzled, and began to doubt in what state 
his fever might have left Mr. Dingwell’s brain. 

“Don’t you see, sir? Do sit down — a little 
patience won’t do either of us any harm.” 

“Certainly, sir,” hesitated the clergyman, 
looking Jiard at him, “but I have not a great 
deal of time.” 

“Nor I a great deal of strength; I shan’t 
keep you long, sir.” 

The Eev. Thomas Bartlett sat down again, 
and glanced meekly an invitation to Mr. Ding- 
well to begin. 

“ Nine-and-twenty years, sir, since you mar- 
ried that unlucky pair. Now, I need not say 
by what particular accidents, for the recollection 
is painful, I -svas in after-life thrown into the 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


153 




society of that unfortunate ill-used dog, poor 
Arthur Verney ; I knew him intimately. I was 
the only friend he had left, and I was with him 
when he died, infamously neglected by all his 
family. He had just got his half-yearly pay- 
ment of a beggarly annuity, on which he sub- 
sisted; he — the rightful Viscount Verney, and 
the head of his family — ha, ha, ha ! By Jove, 
sir, I can’t help laughing, though I pity him. 
Having that little sum in his hand, said he to 
me, ‘You take charge of this for my son, if you 
can find him ; and I rely on your friendship to 
look him up if ever you revisit England ; this is 
for him ; and he was baptized by the Rev. 
Thomas Bartlett, as my wife wrote to tell me just 
eight-and-twenty years ago, and he, no doubt, 
can enable you to trace him.’ That’s what he 
said — what say you^ sir ?”. 

“ Old Lady Verney placed the child in charge 
of the gentleman who then managed the Verney 
property. I heard all about it from a Mr. 
Wynne Williams, a Welsli lawyer. The child 
died when only a year old ; you know he would 
have been the heir apparent.” 

“Poor Arthur said no^ sir. I asked him— a 
Scotch marriage, or some of those crooked wed- 
locks on which they found bigamies and illegiti- 
macies. ‘ No,’ Arthur said, ‘ he has no technic- 
al case, and he may be miserably poor ; this is 
all I can do, and I charge you with it.’ It was 
very solemn, sir. Where does that lawyer live ?” 

“At this moment I can’t recollect, sir — some 
place near which the Verneys have estates.” 

“ Cardyllian?” 

“ The very place, sir.” 

“ I know it, sir ; I’ve been there when I was 
a boy. And his name was Wynne Williams?” 

“I think it was,” said the clergyman. 

“And you have nothing more to say about 
the poor child?” asked Mr. Dingwell. 

“There is nothing more, I fancy, sir,” said 
Mr. Bartlett. “Can I give you any more in 
formation?” 

“ Not any, sir, that I can think of at present. 
Many thanks, Mr. Bartlett, for your obliging 
call. Wait a moment for the servant.” 

And Mr. Dingwell, thinking fiercely, rang his 
hand-bell long and viciously. 

“Ha! Mrs. Rumble ; you’ll show this gen- 
tleman out. Good-bye, sir, and many thanks.” 

“ Good-day, sir.” 

“Ha, ha, ha! It’s a good subject, and a 
fertile!” muttered Mr. Dingwell, so soon as he 
was alone. 

For the rest of that evening Mr Dingwell 
seemed to find ample amusement in his own 
thoughts, and did not trouble Mrs. Rumble with 
that contemptuous and cynical banter, which she 
was obliged to accept, when he pleased, for con- 
versation. 

The only thing she heard him say w'as — “ I’ll 
go there.'' 

Now Malory had already been proved to be a 
safe hiding-place for a gentleman in Mr. Ding- 
well’s uncomfortable circumstances. The air 
was unexceptionable, and Lord Verney was eas- 


ily persuaded to permit the old man to sojourn, 
for a few weeks, in the steward’s house, under 
the care of old Mrs. Mervyn’s servant, aided by 
one provided by Messrs. Goldshed & Levi. 

There were two rooms in the steward’s house 
which old Mrs. Mervyn never used, and some 
furniture removed from the dower house adjoin- 
ing, rendered them tolerably comfortable. A 
letter from old Lady Verney opened and ex- 
plained the request, which amounted to a com- 
mand, that she would permit the invalid, in 
whom Lord Verney. took an interest, to occupy, 
for a fortnight or so, the spare rooms in the stew- 
ard’s house. 

So all was made ready, and the day fixed for 
Mr. Dingwell’ s arrival. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

A SUKPKISE. 

Mr. Dingwell, already much more like him- 
self, having made the journey by easy stages, was 
approaching Malory by night, in a post-chaise.. 
Fatigue, sickness, or some other cause, perhaps, 
exasperated his temper specially that night. 

Well made up in mufilers, his head was fre- 
quently out at the window. 

“The old church, by Jove!” he muttered, 
with a dismal grin, as going slowlj' down the 
jolty hill, beneath the ahcie.nt trees, the quaint 
little church of Llanderris and its quiet church- 
yard appeared at the left of the narrow road, 
white in the moonlight. 

“ A new crop of fools, fanatics, and hypocrites 
come up, since I remember them, and the old 
ones gone down to enrich that patch of ground 
and send up their dirty juice in nettles, and 
thistles, and docks. ‘ In sure and certain hope ’ 
Why should not they, the swine ! as well as 
their masters, cunning, and drunken, and sneaks. 
I’d like to pay a fellow to cut their epitaphs. 
Why should I spare them a line of truth. Here 
I am, plain Mr. Dingwell. They don’t care 
much about me; and when my Lord Verney 
went down the other day, to show them what a 
fool they have got for a master, amid congenial 
rejoicings, I don’t hear that they troubled their 
heads with many regrets for my poor friend Ar 
thur. Ha ! There’s the estuary, and Pendillion. 
These things don’t change, my Lord Verney. 
Pity Lord Verney doesn’t wear as well as Pen- 
dillion. There is Ware, over the water, » if we 
had light to see it — to think of that shabby little 
whey-faced fool ! Here we ’are ; these are the 
trees of Malory, egad !” 

And with a shrug he repeated Homer’s words, 
which say — “As are the generations of leaves, 
such are those of men.” 

Up the avenue of Malory they were driving, 
and Dingwell looked out with a dismal curiosity 
upon the lightless front of the old house. 

“ Cheerful reception !” he muttered. “ Sup- 
pose we pick a hole in your title — a hole in your 
imcket — hey !” 


154 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


Dingwell’s servant was at the door of the 
steward’s house as they drew up, and helped the 
snarling old invalid down. 

When he got to the room the servant said — 

“There’s coffee, and every thing as you de- 
sired.” 

“I’ll take breath first, if you please — coffee 
afterward.” 

“ Mrs. Mervyn hopes, sir, as how you’ll par- 
ding her to-night, being so late, and not in good 
’ealth herself, which she would been hup to re- 
ceive you hotherwise,” said the man, delivering 
his message eloquently. 

“ Quite time enough to-morrow, and to-mor- 
row — and to-morrow ; and I don’t care if our 
meeting creeps away, as that remarkable person, 
William Shakespeare, says — ‘ in this petty pace.’ 
This is more comfortable, egad ! than Rosemary 
Court. I don’t care, I say, if it creeps in that 
petty pace, till we are both in heaven. What’s 
Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba ? So help me 
off with these things.” 

Lord Verney, on whom, in his moods, Mr. 
Dingwell commented so fully, was dispensing 
his hospitalities just then, on the other side of 
the estuary, at his princely mansion of Ware. 
The party was, it is true, small — very small, in 
fact. Lady Wimbledon had been there, and the 
Hon. Caroline Oldys, but they were now visiting 
Cardyllian at the Verney Arms. 

Mr. Jos. Larkin, to his infinite content, was 
at Ware, and deplored the unchristian feelings 
displayed by Mr. Wynne Williams, whom he 
had by this time formally supplanted in the man- 
agement of Lord Verney’s country affairs, and 
who had exhibited “a nasty feeling,” he “might 
say a petulance quite childish,” last Sunday, 
when Mr. Larkin had graced Cardyllian Church 
with his personal devotions, and refused to 
vacate, in his favor, the small pew which he 
held as proprietor of Plasdwllyn, but which Mr. 
Larkin chose to think he occupied in virtue 
of his former position of solicitor to Lord Ver- 
ney. 

Cleve Verney being still in London, received 
one morning from his uncle the following short 
and astounding note, as he sat at breakfast : 

“ My Bear Cleve *The time having arrived 
for taking that step, which the stability of our 
house of Verney has long appeared to demand, 
all preliminaries being satisfactorily adjusted, 
and the young lady and Lady Wimbledon, with 
a very small party of their relations, as you may 
have observed by the publie papers, at present at 
the hotel of Cardyllian, nothing remains unac- 
complished by w'ay of preparation, but your 
presence at Ware, which I shall expect on Fri- 
day next, w'hen you can meet Miss Caroline 
Oldys in those new and more defined relations 
which our contemplated alliance suggests. That 
event is arranged to take place on the Wednes- 
day following. Mr. Larkin, who reports to me 
the substance of a conversation with you, and 
who has my instructions to apprise you fully of 
any details you may desire to bo informed of, will 


see you on the morning of to-morrow, in the li- 
brary at Verney House, at a quarter past eleven 
o’clock. He leaves Ware by the mail train to- 
night. You will observe that the marriage, 
though not strictly private, is to be conducted 
without eclat^ and has not been anywhere an- 
nounced. This will explain ray not inviting 
you to bring down any friend of yours to Ware 
for the occasion.” . 

So it ends with the noble lord’s signature, and 
a due attestation of the state of his afiections to- 
ward Cleve. 

With the end of his uncle’s letter, an end of 
that young gentleman’s breakfast — only just be- 
gun— came also. 

Cleve did not start up and rap out an oath. 
On the contrary, he sat very still, with something, 
almost a smile, on his pale, patient face. In a 
little while he folded the letter up gently, and 
put it in his pocket. Then he did get up and 
go to the window looking out upon the piece 
of ground at the rear of Verney House, and the 
sooty leaves and sparrows that beautified it. For 
a long time he enjoyed that view, and then took 
a swift walk for nearly half an hour in the streets 
— drowsy, formal streets — in that quarter of the 
town, involving little risk of interruption. 

His wife — what a hell was now in that word ! 
and why ? Another man would have found in 
it a fountain of power and consolation. His 
wife, his little boy, were now in France. He 
thought of them both sourly enough. He was 
glad they were so far oif. Margaret would have 
perceived the misery of his mind. She would 
have been poking questions at him, and he 
would neither have divulged nor in any thing 
have consulted her. In the motive of this re- 
serve, which harmonized with his character, may 
have mingled a suspicion that his interest and 
hers might not, in this crisis, have required quite 
the same treatment. 

It was about eleven o’clock as he entered 
Verney House again. In a quarter of an hour 
more that villainous attorney, to wliose vulgar 
machinations he attributed his present comjdi- 
cated wretchedness, would be with him. 

Without any plan, only hating that abominable 
Christian, and resolved to betray neither thought 
nor emotion which could lead him to suspect, 
ever so faintly, the truth, he at length heard him 
announced, as a man who has seen his death- 
warrant hears the approach of the executioner. 
Mr. Larkin entered, with his well-brushed hat in 
his hand, his bald head shining as with a glory, a 
meek smile on his lips, a rat-like shrinking ob- 
servation in his eyes. 

“ Oh ; Mr. Larkin,” said Mr. Cleve Verney, 
with a smile. ‘ ‘ My uncle said you would look 
in to-day. We have often talked the matter 
over together, you know, my uncle and I, and 
I’m not sure that you can tell me very much that 
I don’t know already. Sit down, pray.” 

“ Thanks. I think it was chiefly to let you 
know what he can do for you. I need not say 
to you, my dear Mr. Verney, how generous Lord 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


Verney is, and what an uncle, Mr. Verney, he 
has been to ?/ow.” 

Here was a little glance of the pink eyes at 
the ceiling, and a momentary elevation of his 
large hand, and a gentle, admiring shake of the 
bald head. 

“No; of course. It is entirely as his at- 
torney, sir, acquainted with details which he has 
directed you to mention to me, that he speaks 
of your call here. I had a letter this morn- 
ing.” 

“ Quite so. It was to mention that although 
he could not, of course, in prudence, under the 
circumstances, think of settling any thing — which 
amounts, in fact, to an alienation — a step which, 
in justice to himself and the integrity of the 
family estates, he could not concede or contem- 
plate ; he yet — and he wishes it at the same 
time to be understood, strictly, as his present in- 
tention — means to make you an allowance of a 
thousand pounds a year.” 

‘ ‘ Rather a small allowance, don’t you think, 
for a man with a seat in the House to marry on ?” 
observed Cleve. 

‘ ‘ Pardon me ; but he does not contemplate 
your immediate marriage, Mr. Verney,” answer- 
ed Larkin. 

“ Rather a sudden change of plan, consider- 
ing that he fixed Wednesday next, by his letter,” 
said Cleve, with a faint sneer. 

“ Pardon me, again ; but that referred to his 
own marriage — Lord Verney’s contemplated 
marriage with the Honorable Miss Oldys.” 

“ Oh !” said Cleve, looking steadily down on 
the table. “ Oh ! to be sure.” 

“ That alliance will be celebrated on Wednes- 
day, as proposed.” 

Mr. Larkin paused, and Cleve felt that his 
odious eyes were reading his countenance. Cleve 
could not help turning pale, but there was no 
other visible symptom of his dismay. 

“ Yes ; the letter was a little confused. He 
has been urging me to marry, and I fancied he 
had made up his mind to expedite my affair ; 
and it is rather a relief to me to be assured it is 
his own, for I’m in no particular hurry — quite 
the reverse. Is there any thing more?” 

“ I meant to ask you that question, Mr. Ver- 
ney. I fancied you might possibly wish to put 
some questions to me. I have been commission- 
ed, within certain limits, to give you any infor- 
mation you may desire.” Mr. Larkin paused 
again. 

Cleve’s blood boiled. ‘ ^ Within certain limits, 
more in my uncle’s confidence than I am, that 
vulgar, hypocritical attorney !” He fancied be- 
sides that Mr. Larkin saw what a shock the news 
was, and that he liked, with a mean sense of 
superiority, making him feel that he penetrated 
his affectation of indifference. 

“ It’s very thoughtful of you ; but if any thing 
strikes me I shall talk to my uncle. There are 
subjects that would interest me more than those 
on which he would be at all likely to talk with 
you.” 

“ Quite possibly,” said Mr. Larkin. “And 


155 

what shall I report to his lordship as the result 
of our conversation ?” 

“ Simply the truth, sir.” 

“ I don’t, I fear, make myself clear. I meant 
to ask whether there was any thing you wished 
me to add. You can always reckon upon me, 
Mr. Verney, to convey your views to Lord Ver- 
ney, if there should ever happen to be any thing 
you feel a delicacy about opening to his lordship 
yourself.” 

“Yes, I shall write to him,” answered 
Cleve, dryly. 

And Cleve Verney rose, and the attorney, 
simpering and bowing grandly, took his de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

CLAY RECTORY BY MOONLIGHT. 

As the attorney made his astounding an- 
nouncement, Cleve had felt as if his brain, in vul- 
gar parlance, turned! In a moment the world 
in which he had walked and lived from his 
school-days passed away, and a chasm yawned 
at his feet. His whole future was subverted. 
A man who dies in delusion, and awakes not to 
celestial music and the light of paradise, but to 
the trumpet of judgment and the sight of the 
abyss, will quail as Cleve did. 

How he so well maintained the appearance 
of self-possession while Mr. Larkin remained, 
I can’t quite tell. Pride, however, which has 
carried so many quivering souls, with an ap- 
pearance of defiance, through the press-room to 
the drop, supported him. 

But now that scoundrel was gone. The fury 
that fired him, the iron constraint that held him 
firm was also gone, and Cleve despaired. 

Till this moment, when he w'as called on to 
part with it all, he did not suspect how en- 
tirely his ambition was the breath of his nos- 
trils, or how mere a sham was the sort of talk 
to which he had often treated Margaret and 
others about an emigrant’s life and the Arcadi- 
an liberty of the Antipodes. 

The House-of-Commons life — the finest ex- 
citement on earth — the growing fame, the 
peerage, the premiership in the distance — the 
vulgar fingers of Jos. Larkin had just dropped 
the extinguisher upon the magic lamp that had 
showed him these dazzling illusions, and he was 
left to grope and stumble in the dark among 
his debts, with an obscure wife on his arm, and 
a child to plague him also. And this was to be 
the end ! A precarious thousand a year — de- 
pendent on the caprice of a narrow, tyrannical 
old man, with a young wife at his ear, and a 
load of debts upon Cleve’s shoulders, as he 
walked over the quag ! 

It is not well to let any object, apart from 
heaven, get into your head and fill it. Cleve 
had not that vein of insanity which on occa- 
sion draws men to suicide. In the thread of 
his destiny that fine black strand was not spun. 
So blind and deep for a while was his plunge 


15G 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


into despair, that I think that had that atrabil- 
ious poison, which throws out its virus as sud- 
denly as latent plague, and lays a felo-de-se to 
cool his heels and his head in God’s prison, the 
grave — had a drop or two, I say, of that elixir 
of death been mingled in his blood, I don’t 
think he would ever have seen another morrow. 

But Cleve was not thinking of dying. He 
was sure — in rage, and blasphemy, and torture, 
it might be — but still he was sure to live on. 
Well, what was now to be done ? Every power 
must be tasked to prevent the ridiculous catas- 
trophe which threatened him with ruin ; neither 
scruple, nor remorse, nor conscience, nor com- 
punction should stand in the way. We are 
not to suppose that he is about to visit the Hon. 
Miss Caroline Oldys with a dagger in one 
hand and a cup of poison in the other, nor 
with gunpowder to blow up his uncle and Ware, 
as some one did Darnley and the house of Kirk 
of Field. Simply his mind was filled with the 
one idea, that one way or another the thing 
must be stopped. 

It was long before his ideas arranged them- 
selves, and for a long time after no plan of op- 
erations which had a promise of success sug- 
gested itself. When at length he did decide, 
you would have said no wilder or wickeder 
scheme could have entered his brain. 

It was a moonlight night. The scene a flat 
country, with a monotonous row of poplars 
crossing it.^ This long file of formal trees 
marks the line of a canal, fronting which at a 
distance of about a hundred yards stands a 
lonely brick house, with a few sombre elms 
rising near it ; a light mist hung upon this ex- 
pansive flat. The soil must have been unpro- 
ductive, so few farmsteads were visible for 
miles around. Here and there pools of water 
glimmered coldly in the moonlight ; and patch- 
es of rushes and reeds made the fields look rag- 
ged and neglected. 

Here and there, too, a stunted hedge-row 
showed dimly along the level, otherwise un- 
broken, and stretching away into the haze of 
the horizon. It is a raw and dismal landscape, 
where a murder might be done, and the scream 
lose itself in distance unheard — where the high- 
wayman, secure from interruption, might stop 
and plunder the chance wayfarer at his leisure 
— a landscape which a fanciful painter would 
hank with a distant row of gibbets. 

The front of this square brick house, with a 
little enclosure, hardly two yards in depth, and 
a W'ooden x^aling in front, and with a green moss 
growing damply on the piers and the door- 
steps, and tinging the mortar between the 
bricks, looks out upon a narrow old road, along 
which just then were audible the clink and rat- 
tle of an approaching carriage and horses. 

It was past one o’clock. No hospitable light 
shone from the windows, which on the contrary 
looked out black and dreary upon the vehicle 
and steaming horses which pulled up in front 
of the house. 

Out got Cleve and reconnoitered. 


Are you quite sure ?” 

“ Clay Parsonage — yes, sir,” said the driver. 

Cleve shook the little wooden gate, which 
was locked ; so he climbed the paling, and 
knocked and rang loud and long at the hall- 
door. 

The driver at last reported a light in an up- 
per window. 

Cleve went on knocking and ringing, and the 
head of the Eev. Isaac Dixie appeared high in 
the air over the window-stool. 

“What do you want, pray?” challenged that 
suave clergyman from his sanctuary. 

“It’s I — Cleve Verney. Why do you go to 
bed at such hours ? I must see you for a mo- 
ment.” 

“Dear me! my dear, valued pupil! Who 
could have dreamed ? I shall be down in one 
moment.” 

“ Thanks — I’ll wait and then to the driver 
he said — “I shan’t stay five minutes; mind, 
you’re ready to start with me the moment I re- 
turn.” 

Now the hall-door opened. The Eev. Isaac 
Dixie — for his dress was a compromise between 
modesty and extreme haste, and necessarily 
very imperfect — stood in greater part behind 
the hall-door ; a bedroom candlestick in his fin- 
gers, smiling blandly on his “ distinguished pu- 
pil,” who entered without a smile, without a 
greeting — merely saying — 

“Where shall we sit down for a minute, old 
Dixie ?” 

Holding his hand with the candle in it across, 
so as to keep his flowing dressing-gown togeth- 
er; and with much wonder and some misgiv- 
ings, yet contriving his usual rosy smile, he 
conducted his unexpected visitor into his 
“study.” 

“I’ve so many apologies to offer, my very 
honored and dear friend ; this is so miserable, 
and I fear you are cold. We must get some- 
thing; we must, really, manage something — 
some little refreshment.” 

Dixie placed the candle on the chimney- 
piece, and looked inquiringly on Cleve. 

‘ ‘ There’s some sherry, I know, and I think 
there’s some brandy.” 

“ There’s no one up and about?” inquired 
Cleve. 

“Not a creature,” said the rector ; “no one 
can hear a word, and these are good thick 
walls.” 

“I’ve only a minute; I know you’d like to 
be a bishop, Dixie ?” . 

Cleve, with his muffler and his hat still on, 
was addressing the future prelate, with his el- 
bow on the chimney-piece. 

Nolo episcopal f of course, but we know you 
would, and ^here’s no time now for pretty 
speeches. Now, listen, you shall be ihat^ and 
you shall reach it by two steps — the two best 
livings in our gift. I always keep my word ; 
and when I set my heart on a thing I bring it 
about, and so sure as I do any good, I’ll bend 
all my interest to that one object,” 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


157 


The Rev. Isaac Dixie stared hard at him, for 
Cleve looked strangely, and spoke as sternly as 
a villain demanding his purse. The Rector of 
Clay looked horribly perplexed. His counte- 
nance seemed to ask, “ Does he mean to give 
me a mitre or to take my life, or is he quite 
right in his head ?” 

‘‘You think I don’t mean what I say, or that 
I’m talking nonsense, or that I’m mad. I’m 
not mad, it’s no nonsense, and no man was ever 
more resolved to do what he says.” And 
Cleve, who was not given to swearing, did 
swear a fierce oath. “But all this is not for 
nothing; there’s a condition ; you must do me 
a service. It won’t cost you much — less trouble, 
almost, than you’ve taken for me to-night, but 
you must do it.” 

“ And may I, my dear and valued pupil, may 
I ask?” began the reverend gentleman. 

“ No, you need not ask, for I’ll tell you. It’s 
the same sort of service you did for me in 
France, ” said Cleve. 

“Ah! ah!” ejaculated the clergyman, very 
uneasily. “ For no one but you^ my dear and 
admirable pupil, could I have brought myself 
to take that step, and I trust that you will on 
reconsideration — ’ ’ 

“ You must do what I say,” said Cleve, look- 
ing and speaking with the same unconscious 
sternness, which frightened the rector more than 
any amount of bluster. “I hardly suppose 
you want to break with me finally, and you 
don’t quite know all the consequences of that 
step, I fancy.” 

“Break vfit\iyou? my admirable patron ! de- 
sert my dear and brilliant pupil in an emer- 
gency ? Certainly not. Reckon upon me, my 
dear Mr. Verney, whenever you need my poor 
services, to the uttermost. To you all my loyal- 
ty is due, but unless you make a very special 
point of it, I should hesitate for any other per- 
son living, hut yourself, to incur a second 
time — ” 

“ Don’t you think, my dear, d — d old friend, 
I understand the length, and breadth, and 
depth of your friendship ? I know how strong 
it is^ and I’ll make it stronger. It is for me — 
yes, in my own case you must repeat the service, 
as you call it, which you once did me, in an- 
other country.” 

The Rev. Isaac Dixie’s rosy cheeks mottled 
all over blue and yellow ; he withdrew his hand 
from his dressing-gown, with an unaffected gest- 
ure of fear ; and he fixed a terrified gaze upon 
Cleve Verney’s eyes, W'hich did not flinch, but 
encountered his, darkly and fixedly, with a des- 
perate resolution. 

“ Why, you look as much frightened as if I 
asked you to commit a crime ; you marvelous 
old fool, you hardly think me mad enough for 
that?'"' 

“ I hardly know, Mr, Verney, what I think,” 
said Dixie, looking with a horrible helplessness 
into his face. “ Good God ! sir, it can’t be 
any thing wrong 

“ Come, come, sir; you’re more than half 


asleep. Do you dare to think I’d commit my- 
self to any man, by such an idiotic proposal? 
No one but a lunatic could think of blasting 
himself, as you — but you canH suppose it. Do 
listen, and understand if you can ; my wife, to 
whom you married me, is dead^ six months ago 
she died; I tell you she’s dead."^ 

“Dear me! I’m very much pained, and I 
will say shocked; the deceased lady, I should 
not, my dear pupil, have alluded to, of course ; 
but need I say, I never heard of that afflic- 
tion ?” 

“How on earth could you? You don’t sup- 
pose, knowing all you do, I’d put it in the pa- 
pers among the deaths 

“No, dear me, of course,” said the Rev. 
Isaac Dixie, hastily bringing his dressing-gown 
again together. “No, certainly.” 

“I don’t think that sort of publication "would 
answer you or me. You forget it is two years 
ago and more, a good deal more. I don’t though, 
and whatever you may, I don’t want my uncle 
to know any thing about it.” 

“But, you know, I only meant, you hadn’t 
told me ; my dear Mr. Verney, my honored pu- 
pil, you will see — don’t you perceive how much 
is involved ; but this — couldnH you put this up- 
on some one else ? Do — do think.” 

“No, in no one’s power, but yours^ Dixie;” 
and Cleve took his hand, looking in his face, and 
wrung it so hard that the reverend gentleman 
almost winced under the pressure, of adminis- 
tering which I dare say Cleve was quite uncon- 
scious. “ No one but you,'' 

“ The poor — the respected lady — being de- 
ceased, of course you’ll give me a note to that 
effect under your hand ; you’ll have no objec- 
tion, in this case, to my taking out a special li- 
cense ?” 

“Special devil! are you mad? Why, any 
one could do it with that. No, it’s just because 
it is a little irregular^ nothing more, and exacts 
implicit mutual confidence, that 1 have chosen 
you for it.” 

Dixie looked as if the compliment was not 
an uiimixed pleasure. 

“I still think, that — that having performed 
the other, there is some awkwardness, and the 
penalties are awful,” said he with increasing un- 
easiness, “and it does strike me, that if my dear 
Mr. Verney could place his hand upon some 
other humble friend, in this particular case, the 
advantages would be obvious.” 

“ Come, Dixie,” said Cleve, going ; you 
must say yes or no, and so decide whether you 
have seen the last of me ; I can’t spend the 
night giving you my reasons, but they are con- 
clusive. If you act like a man of sense, it’s 
the last service I shall ever require at your 
hands, and I’ll reward you splendidly ; if you 
don’t, I not only cease to be your friend, but I 
become your enemy, I can strike when I like 
it — you know that; and upon my soul I’ll 
smash yon. I shall sec my uncle to-morrow 
morning at Ware, and I’ll tell him distinctly 
the entire of that French transaction.” 


158 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


‘‘But — but pray, my dear Mr. Verney, do 
say, did I refuse — do I object? you may com- 
mand me, of course. I have incurred I may 
say a risk for you already, a risk in form'"' 

“ Exactly, in form ; and you don’t increase it 
by this kindness, and you secure my eternal 
gratitude. Now you speak like a man of sense. 
You must be in Cardyllian to-morrow evening. 
It is possible I may ask nothing of you ; if I 
do, the utmost is a technical irregularity, and 
secrecy, which we are both equally interested in 
observing. You shall stay a week in Cardyllian, 
mind, and I, of course, frank you there and back, 
and while you remain — it’s my business. It has 
a political aspect, as I shall explain to you by 
and by, and so soon as I shall have brought my 
uncle round, and can avow it, it will lead the 
way rapidly to your fortune. Shall I see you 
in Cardyllian to-morrow evening ?” 

“ Agreed, sir! — agreed, my dear Mr. Verney. 
I shall be there, my dear and valued pupil — 

3 / 65 .” 

“Go to the Verney Arms ; I shall probably 
be looking out for you there ; at all events I shall 
see you before night.” 

Verney looked at his watch, and repeated “ I 
shall see you to-morrow;” and without taking 
leave, or hearing as it seemed the Rev. Isaac 
Dixie’s farewell compliments and benedictions, 
he walked out in gloomy haste, as if the confer- 
ence was not closed, but only suspended by the 
approaching parenthesis of a night and a day. 

From the hall-table the obsequious divine 
took the key of the little gate, to which, in slip- 
pers and i'essing-gown, he stepped blandly 
forth, and having let out his despotic pupil, and 
waved his adieu, as the chaise drove away, he 
returned, and locked up his premises and house, 
with a great load at his heart. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

AN ALARM. 

Cleve reached the station, eight miles^way 
from the dismal swamp I have described, in 
time to catch the mail train. From Llwynan 
he did not go direct to Ware, but drove instead 
to Cardyllian, and put up at the Verney Arms 
early next morning. 

By ten o’clock he was seen, sauntering about 
the streets, talking with old friends, and popping 
into the shops and listening to the gossip of the 
town. Cleve had a sort of friendliness that an- 
swered all electioneering purposes perfectly, and 
that was the measure of its value. 

Who should he light upon in Castle Street but 
Tom Sedley ! They must have arrived by the 
same train at Llwynan. The sight of Tom jar- 
red intensely upon Cleve Verney’s nerves. There 
was something so strange in his looks and man- 
ner that Sedley thought him ill. He stopped 
for a while to talk with him at the corner of 
Church Street, but seemed so obviously disposed 
to escape from him, that Sedley did not press his 


society, but acquiesced with some disgust and 
wonder in their new relations. 

Tom Sedley had been with Wynne Williams 
about poor Vane Etherage’s affairs. Honest 
Wynne Williams was in no mood to flatter Lord 
Verney, the management of whose affairs he had, 
he said, “ resigned.” The fact was that he had 
been, little by little, so uncomfortably supersed- 
ed in his functions by our good friend Jos. Lar- 
kin, and the fashion of Lord Verney’s counte- 
nance was so manifestly changed, that honest 
Wynne Williams felt that he might as well do a 
proud thing, and resign, as wait a little longer 
for the inevitable humiliation of dismissal. 

“ I’m afraid my friend the admiral is in bad 
hands ; worse hands than Larkin’s he could 
hardly have fallen into. I could tell you things 
of that fellow, if we had time — of course strictly 
between ourselves, you know — that would open 
your eyes. And as to his lordship — well, I sup- 
pose most people know something of Lord Ver- 
ney. I owe him nothing, you know ; it’s all 
ended between us, and I wash my hands of him 
and his concerns. You may talk to him, if 3"ou 
like ; but you’ll find you might as well argue 
with the tide in the estuary there. I’d be dev- 
ilish glad if I could be of any use ; but you see 
how it is ; and to tell ^'’ou the truth, I’m afraid 
it must come to a regular smash, unless Lord 
Verney drops that nasty litigation. There are 
some charges, you know, upon the property al- 
ready ; and with that litigation hanging over it, 
I don’t see how he’s to get money to pay those 
calls. It’s a bad business, I’m afraid, and an 
awful pity. Poor old fellow ! — a little bit rough, 
but devilish good-hearted.” 

Tom Sedley went up to Hazelden. The 
Etherage girls knew he was coming, and were 
watching for him at the top of the steep walk. 

“I’ve been talking, as I said I would, to 
Wynne Williams this morning,” he said, after 
greetings and inquiries made and answered, 
“and he had not any thing important to ad- 
vise ; but he has promised to think over the 
whole matter.” 

“ And Wynne Williams is known to be the 
cleverest lawyer in the world f exclaimed Miss 
Charity, exulting. “I was afraid, on account 
of his having been so lately Lord Verney’s ad- 
viser, that he would not have been willing to 
consult with you. And will he use his influ- 
ence, which must be very great, with Lord Ver- 
ney ?” 

“He has none; and he thinks it would be 
quite useless my talking to him.” 

“ Oh ! Is it possible ? Well, if he said that, 
I never heard such nonsense in the course of my 
life. I think old Lord Verney was one of the 
very nicest men I ever spoke to in the course of 
my life ; and I’m certain it is all that horrid Mr. 
Larkin, and a great mistake ; for Lord Verney 
is quite a gentleman, and would not do any 
thing so despicable as to worry and injure papa 
by this horrid business, if only you would make 
him understand it ; and I do think, Thomas 
Sedley, you might take that trouble for papa.” 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


159 


** ril go over to Ware, and try to see Lord 
Verney, if you think my doing so can be of the 
least use,” said Tom, who knew the vanity of 
arguing with Miss Charity. 

“ Oh, c/o,” said pretty Agnes, and that en- 
treaty was, of course, a command ; so without 
going up to see old Etherage, who was very 
much broken and ill, his daughters said; and 
hoping possibly to have some cheering news on 
his return, Tom Sedley took his leave for the 
present, and from the pier of Cardyllian crossed 
in a boat to Ware. 

On the spacious steps of that palatial mansion, 
as Mr. Larkin used to term it, stood Lord Ver- 
ney, looking grandly seaward, with compress- 
ed eyes, like a near-sighted gentleman as he 
w'as. 

“ Oh ! is she all right said Lord Verney. 

“I — I don’t know, Lord Verney,” replied 
Tom Sedley. . I came to — ” 

“Oh — aw — Mr. — Mr. — how d’ye do, sir,” said 
Lord Verney, with marked frigidity, not this 
time giving him the accustomed finger. 

“I came. Lord Verney, hoping you might 
possibly give me five minutes, and a Very few 
words, about that unfortunate business of poor 
Mr. Vane Etherage.” 

“ I’m unfortunately just going out in a boat — 
about it ; and I can’t just now afford time, Mr. 
— a — Mr. — ” 

“ Sedley is my name,” suggested Sedley, who 
knew that Lord Verney remembered him per- 
fectly. 

“Sedley — Mr. Sedley; yes. As I mention- 
ed, I’m going in a boat. I’m sorry I can’t pos- 
sibly oblige you ; and it is very natural you, who 
are so intimate, I believe, with Mr. Etherage, 
should take that side of the question — about it ; 
but I've no reason to call those proceedings un- 
fortunate ; and — and I don’t anticipate — and, in 
fact, people usually look after their own con- 
cerns — about it.” Lord Verney, standing on 
the steps, was looking over Sedley’s head, as he 
spoke, at the estuary and the shipping there. 

“ I’m sure. Lord Verney, if you knew how ut- 
terly ruinous, how really deplorable^ the conse- 
quences of pursuing this thing — I mean the law- 
suit against him — may be — I am sure — ^you 
would stop it all.” 

Honest Tom spoke in the belief that in the 
hesitation that had marked the close of the noble 
lord’s remarks there was a faltering of purpose, 
whereas there was simply a failure of ideas. 

“ I can’t help your forming opinions, sir, 
though I have not invited their expression upon 
my concerns and — and affairs. If you have any 
thing to communicate about those proceedings, 
you had better see Mr. Larkin, my attorney ; he’s 
the proper person. Mr. Etherage has taken a 
line in the county to wound and injure me, as, 
of course, he has a perfect right to do ; he has 
taken that line, and I don’t see any reason why 
I should not have what I’m entitled to. There’s 
tlie principle of government by party, you’re 
aware ; and we’ve not to ask favors of those we 
seek to wound and injure — about it ; and that’s 


my view, and idea, and fixed opinion. I must 
wish you good-morning, Mr. Sedley. I’m going 
down to my boat, and I decline distinctly any 
conversation upon the subject of my law busi- 
ness ; I decline it distinctly, Mr. Sedley — about 
it,” repeated the peer peremptorily ; and as he 
looked a good deal incensed, Tom Sedley wisely 
concluded it was time to retire ; and so his em- 
bassage came to an end. 

Lord Verney crossed the estuary in his yacht, 
consulting his watch from time to time, and rec- 
onnoitering the green and pier of Cardyllian 
through his telescope with considerable interest. 
A little group was assembled near the stair, 
among whose figures he saw Lady Wimbledon. 
“Why is not Caroline there?” he kept asking 
himself, and all the time searching that little 
platform for the absent idol of his heart. 

Let us deal mercifully with this antiquated 
romance ; and if Miss Caroline Oldys forebore 
to say, “ Go up, thou baldhead,” let us also spare 
the amorous incongruity. Does any young man 
love with the self-abandonment of an old one ? 
Is any romance so romantic as the romance of 
an old man ? When Sancho looked over his 
shoulder, and saw his master in his shirt, cut- 
ting capers and tumbling head-over-heels, and 
tearing his hair in his love-madness, that wise 
governor and man of proverbs forgot the gro- 
tesqueness of the exhibition in his awe of that 
vehement adoration. So let us. When does 
this noble frenzy exhibit itself in such maudlin 
transports, and with a self-sacrifice so idolatrous- 
ly suicidal, as in the old? Seeing, then, that 
the spirit is so prodigiously willing, let us bear 
with the spectacle of their infirmities, and when 
one of these sighing, magnanimous, wrinkled 
Philanders goes by, let us not hiss, but rather 
say kindly, “ Vive la bagatelle or, as we say 
in Ireland, “ More power !” 

He was disappointed. Miss Caroline Oldys 
had a very bad headache, Lady Wimbledon said, 
and was in her room, in care of her maid, so 
miserable at losing the charming sail to Maloiy. 

Well, the lover was sorely disappointed, as we 
have said ; but there was nothing for it but sub- 
mission, and to comfort himself with the assur- 
ances of Lady Wimbledon that Caroline’s head- 
aches never lasted long, and that she was always 
better for a long time, when they were over. 
This latter piece of information seemed to puzzle 
Lord Verney. 

“ Miss Oldys is always better after an attack 
than before it,” said Cleve, interpreting for his 
uncle. 

“ Why, of course. That’s what Lady Wim- 
bledon means, as I understand it,” said Lord 
Verney, a little impatiently. “It’s very sad; 
you must tell me all about it ; but we may hope 
.to find her, you say, quite recovered when w’e 
return ?” 

Cleve W'as not of the party to Malory. He 
returned to the Verney Arms. He went up to 
Lady Wimbledon’s drawing-room with a book 
he had promised to lend her, and found Miss 
Caroline Oldys. 


IGO 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


Yes, she was better. He was very earnest 
and tender in his solicitudes. He was looking 
ill, and was very melancholy. 

Tw'o hours after her maid came in to know 
whether she “pleased to want any thing?” and 
she would have sworn that Miss Caroline had 
been crying. Mr. Cleve had got up from beside 
her, and was looking out of the window. 

A little later in the day, old Lady Calthorpe, 
a cousin of Lady Wimbledon’s, very feeble and 
fussy, and babbling in a querulous treble, was 
pushed out in her Bath-chair, Cleve and Miss 
Caroline Oldys accompanying, to the old castle 
of Cardyllian. 

On the step of the door of the Verney Arms, 
as they emerged, whom should they meet, de- 
scending from the fly that had borne him from 
Llwynan, but the Eev. Isaac Dixie. That sleek 
and rosy gentleman, with flat feet, and large 
hands, and fascinating smile, was well pleased to 
join the party, and march blandly beside the 
chair of the viscountess, invigorating the faint- 
ing spirit of that great lady by the balm of his 
sympathy and the sunshine of his smile. 

So into the castle they went, across the near- 
ly obliterated moat, where once a draw-bridge 
hung, now mantled with greenest grass, under 
the grim arches, where once the clanging port- 
cullis rose and fell, and into the base court, and 
so under other arches into the inner court, sur- 
rounded by old ivy-mantled walls. 

In this seclusion the old Lady Calthorpe stop- 
ped her chair to enjoy the sweet air and snnshine, 
and the agreeable conversation of the divine, and 
Cleve offered to guide Miss Caroline Oldys 
through the ruins, an exploration in which she 
seemed highly interested. 

Cleve spoke low and eloquently, but I don’t 
think it Avas about the architecture. Time pass- 
ed rapidly, and at last Miss Oldys whispered — 

“ We’ve been too long away from Lady Cal- 
thorpe. I must go back. She’ll think I have 
deserted her.” 

So they emerged from the roofless chambers 
and dim corridors, and Cleve wished from the 
bottom of his heart that some good or evil angel 
would put off his uncle’s nuptials for another 
week, and all would be well — well I 

Yes — what was “well,” if one goes to moral 
ideals for a standard ? We must run risks — we 
must set one side of the book against the other. 
What is the purpose and the justification of all 
morality but happiness ? The course which in- 
volves least misery is alternatively the moral 
course. And take the best act that ever you did, 
and place it in that dreadful solvent, the light of 
God’s eye, and how much of its motive will stand 
the test ? Yes — another week, and all will be 
well ; and has not a fertile mind like his, re- 
source for any future complication, as for this, ^ 
that may arise ? 

Captain Shrapnell was not sorry to meet this 
distinguished party as they emerged, and drew 
up on the grass at the side, and raised his hat 
with a reverential smile, as the old lady wheeled 
by, and throwing a deferential concern sudden- 


ly into his countenance, he walked a few paces 
beside Cleve, while he said — 

“ You’ve heard, of course, about your uncle, 
Lord Verney ?” 

“No?” answered Cleve, on chance. 

“ No ? — Oh ? — Why it’s half an hour ago. 
I hope it’s nothing serious ; but his groom drove 
down from Malory for the doctor here. Some* 
thing wrong with his head — suddenly, I under- 
stand, and Old Lyster took his box with him, 
and a bottle of leeches — that looks serious, eh ? 
— along with him.” 

Shrapnell spoke low, and shook his head. 

“ I — I did not hear a word of it. I’ve been 
in the castle with old Lady Calthorpe. I’m 
very much surprised.” 

There was something odd, shrewd old Shrap- 
nell fancied, in the expression of Cleve’s eyes, 
which for a moment met his. But Cleve look- 
ed pale and excited, as he said a word in a very 
low tone to Miss Oldys, and walked across the 
street accompanied by Shrapnell, to the doctor’s 
shop. 

“Oh!” said Cleve, hastily stepping in, and 
accosting a lean, pale youth, with lank, black 
hair, who paused in the process of braying a 
prescription in a mortar as he approached. 
“My uncle’s not well, I hear — Lord Verney — 
at Malory ?” 

The young man glanced at Captain Shrapnell. 

“The doctor told me not to mention, sir; 
but you'd come into the back-room — ” 

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Cleve 
Verney to Shrapnell, at the same time stepping 
into the sanctum, and the glass-door being shut, 
he asked, “What is it?” 

“ The doctor thought it must be apoplexy, 
sir,” murmured the young man, gazing with 
wide open eyes, very solemnly, in Cleve’s face. 

“So I fancied,” and Cleve paused, a little 
stunned; “and the doctor’s there, at Malory, 
now ?" 

“Yes, sir; he’ll be there a quarter of an 
hour or more by this time,” answered the young 
man. 

Again Cleve paused. 

“It was not fatal — he was still living?” he 
asked very low. 

“Yes, sir — sure.” 

Cleve, forgetting any form of valediction, pass- 
ed into the shop. 

“I must drive down to Malory,” he said; 
and calling one of those pony carriages which 
ply in Cardyllian, he drove away, with a wave 
of his hand to the captain, who was sorely puz- 
zled to read the true meaning of that handsome 
mysterious face. 


\ CHAPTEE LXIV. 

A NEW LIGHT. 

It was all over Cardyllian by this time that 
the viscount was very ill — dying perhaps — possi- 
bly dead. Under the transparent green shadow 
of the tall old trees, down the narrow road to 


• THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


161 


Malory, which he had so often passed in other 
moods, more passionate, hardly perhaps less self- 
ish, than his present, was Cleve now driving 
with brain and heart troubled and busy — ‘ ‘ walk- 
ing, as before, in a vain shadow, and disquieting 
himself in vain.” The daisies looked up inno- 
cently as the eyes of children, into his darkened 
gaze. Had fate after all taken pity on him, 
and was here by one clip of the inexorable 
shears a deliverance from the hell of his com- 
plication ? 

As Cleve entered the gate of Malory he saw 
the party from Cardyllian leaving in the yacht 
on their return. Lady Wimbledon, it turned 
out, had remained behind in charge of Lord 
Verney. On reaching the house, Cleve learned 
that Lord Verney was alive — was better in fact. 

Combining Lady Wimbledon’s and the doc- 
tor’s narratives, what Cleve learned amounted 
to this : Lord Verney, who affected a mysteri- 
ous urgency and haste in his correspondence, 
had given orders that his letters should follow 
him to Malory that day. One of these letters, 
with a black seal and black-bordered envelope, 
proved to be a communication of considerable 
interest. It was addressed to him by the clergy- 
man who had charge of poor old Lady Verney ’s 
conscience, and announced that his care was 
ended, and the Dowager Lady, Lord Verney’s 
mother, was dead. 

As the doctor who had attended her was 
gone, and no one but servants in the house, he 
had felt it a duty to write to Lord Verney to 
apprise him of the melancholy event. 

The melancholy event was no great shock to 
Lord Verney, her mature son of sixty-four, who 
had sometimes wondered dimly whether she 
would live as long as the old Countess of Des- 
mond, and go on drawing her jointure for fifty 
years after his own demise. He had been a 
good son ; he had nothing to reproach himself 
with. She was about ninety years of age ; the 
estate was relieved of £1500 per annum. She 
had been a religious woman too, and was, no 
doubt, happy. On the whole the affliction was 
quite supportable. 

But no affliction ever came at a more awk- 
ward time. Here was his marriage on the eve 
of accomplishment — a secret so well kept up to 
yesterday that no one on earth, he fancied, but 
half a dozen people, knew that any such thing 
was dreamed of. Lord Verney, like other 
tragedians in this theatre of ours, was, perhaps, 
a little more nervous than he seemed, and did 
not like laughter in the wrong place. He did 
not want to be talked over, or, as he said, “ any 
jokes or things about it.” And therefore he 
wished the event to take mankind unawares, as 
the Flood did. But this morning, with a nice 
calculation as to time, he had posted four letters, 
bound, like Antonio’s argosies, to different re- 
mote parts of the world — one to Bau, another to 
Lisbon, a third to Florence, and a fourth for Ge- 
neva, to friends who were likely to spread the 
news in all directions — which he cared nothing 
about, if only the event came off at the appoint- 
L 


ed time. With the genius of a diplomatist, he 
had planned his remaining dispatches, not very 
many, so as to reach their less distant destina- 
tions at the latest hour, previous to that of his 
union. But the others were actually on their 
way, and he supposed a month or more must 
now pass before it could take place with any 
decorum, and, in the mean time, all the world 
would be enjoying their laugh over his interest- 
ing situation. 

Lord Verney was very much moved when he 
read this sad letter ; he was pathetic and peev- 
ish, much moved and irritated, and shed some 
tears. He withdrew to write a note to the clergy- 
man, who had announced the catastrophe, and 
was followed by Lady Wimbledon, who held her- 
self privileged, and to her he poured forth his 
“ideas and feelings” about his “ poor dear mother 
who was gone, about it and suddenly he was 
seized with a giddiness so violent that if a chair 
had not been behind him he must have fallen on 
the ground. 

It was something like a fit; Lady Wimble- 
don was terrified ; he looked so ghastly, and an- 
swered nothing, only sighed laboriously, and 
moved his white lips. In her distraction she 
threw up the window, and screamed for the 
servants ; and away went Lord Verney’s open 
carriage, as we have seen, to Cardyllian, for the 
doctor. 

By the time that Cleve arrived, the attack 
had declared itself gout — fixed, by a mustard 
bath, “ nicely” in the foot, leaving, however, its 
“ leven mark” upon the head where it had flick- 
ered, in an angrily inflamed eye. 

Here was another vexation. It might be 
over in a week, the doctor said ; it might last a 
month. But for the present it was quite out of 
the question moving him. They must contrive, 
and make him as comfortable as they could. 
But at Malory he must be contented to remain 
for the present. 

He saw Cleve for a few minutes. 

“It’s very unfortunate — your poor dear 
grandmother — and this gout ; but we must bow 
to the will of Providence ; we have every conso- 
lation in her case. She’s no doubt gone to 
heaven, about it ; but it’s indescribably unto- 
ward the whole thing ; you apprehend me — the 
marriage — you know — and things; we must 
pray to heaven to grant us patience under these 
cross-grained, unintelligible misfortunes that are 
always persecuting some people, and never come 
in the way of others, and I beg you’ll represent 
to poor Caroline how it is. I’m not even to 
write for a day or two ; and you must talk to her, 
Cleve, and try to keep her up, for I do believe 
she does like her old man, and dobs not wish to 
see the poor old fellow worse than he is ; and, 
Cleve, I appreciate your attention and affection 
in coming so promptly and Lord Verney put 
out his thin hand and pressed Cleve’s. “ You’re 
very kind, Cleve, and if they allow me I’ll see 
you to-morrow, and you’ll tell me what’s in the 
papers, for they won’t let me read ; and there 
will be this funeral, you know — about it — your 


162 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


poor dear grandmother ; she’ll of course — she’ll 
be buried ; you’ll have to see to that, you know ; 
and Larkin, you know — he’ll save you trouble, 
and — and — hey! ha, ha — hoo! Very pleasant ! 
Good gracious, what torture ! Ha ! — oh, dear ! 
Well, I think I’ve made every thing pretty clear, 
and you’ll tell Caroline — it’s only a flying gout 
— about it — and — and things. So I must bid 
you good-bye, dear Cleve, and God bless you.” 

So Cleve did see Caroline Oldys at the Yer- 
ney Arms, and talked a great deal with her, in 
a low tone, while old Lady Wimbledon dozed 
in her chair, and, no doubt, it was all about his 
uncle’s “flying gout.” 

That night our friend Wynne Williams was 
sitting in his snuggery, a little bit of fire was in 
the grate, the air being sharp, his tea-things on 
the table, and the cozy fellow actually reading a 
novel, with his slippered feet on the fender. 

It was half past nine o’clock, a rather rakish 
hour in Cardyllian, when the absorbed attorney 
was aroused by a tap at his door. 

I think I have already mentioned that in that 
town of the golden age, hall-doors stand open, 
in evidence of “ancient faith that knows no 
guile,” long after dark. 

“Come in,” said Wynne Williams; and to 
his amazement who should enter, not with the 
conventional smile of greeting, but pale, dark, 
and wo-begone, but the tall figure of Mrs. Re- 
becca Mervyn. 

Honest Wynne Williams never troubled him- 
self about ghosts, but he had read of spectral 
illusions, and old Mrs. Mervyn unconsciously 
encouraged a fancy that the thing he greatly 
feared had come upon him, and that he was 
about to become a victim to that sort of Iialluci- 
nation. She stood just a step within the door, 
looking at him, and he, with his novel, on his 
knee, stared at her as fixedly. 

“ She’s dead,” said the old lady. 

“ Who?'* exclaimed the attorney. 

“ TheDowager Lady Verney,” she continued, 
rather than answered. 

“I was so much astonished, ma’am, to see 
you here ; you haven’t been down in the town 
these twelve years, I think. I could scarce be- 
lieve my eyes. Won’t you come in, ma’am? 
Pray do.” The attorney by this time was on 
his legs, and doing the honors, much relieved, 
and he placed a chair for her. “If it’s any 
business, ma’am. I'll be most happy, or any time 
you like.” 

“Yes, she’s dead,” said she again. 

“Oh, come in, ma’am — do — so is Queen 
Anne,” said the attorney, laughing kindly. “ I 
heard that early to-day; we all heard it, and 
we’re sorry, of course. Sit down, ma’am. But 
then she was not very far from a hundred, and 
we’re all mortal. Can I do any thing for you, 
ma’am ?” 

“She was good to me — a proud woman — 
hard, they used to say ; but she was good to me 
— yes, sir — and so she’s gone, at last. She was 
frightened at them — there was something in 
them — my poor head — you know — I couldn’t 


see it, and I did not care — for the little child 
was gone ; it was only two months old, and she 
was ninety years ; it’s a long time, and now she’s 
in her shroud, poor thing ! and I may speak to 
you.” 

“Do, ma’am — pray; but it’s growing late, 
and hadn’t we better come to the point a bit ?” 

She was sitting in the chair he had placed for 
her, and she had something under her cloak, a 
thick book it might be, which she held close in 
her arms. She placed it on the table, and it 
turned out to be a small tin box with a padlock. 

“Papers, ma’am?” he inquired. 

“ Will you read them, sir, and see what ought 
to be done — there’s the key ?” 

“Certainly, ma’am;” and having unlocked 
it, he disclosed two little sheaves of papers, 
neatly folded and endorsed. 

The attorney turned these over rapidly, mere- 
ly reading at first the little note of its contents 
written upon each. “ By Jove ! ” he exclaimed; 
he looked very serious now, with a frown, and 
the corners of his mouth drawn down, like a 
man who witnesses something horrible. 

“And, ma’am, how long have you had these ?” 

“ Since Mr. Sedley died.” 

“ I know ; that’s more than twenty years, I 
think ; did you show them to any one ?” 

“ Only to the poor old lady who’s gone.” 

“Ay, I see.” 

There was a paper endorsed “Statement of 
Facts,” and this the attorney was now reading. 

“Now, ma’am, do you wish to place these 
papers in my hands, that I may act upon them 
as the interests of those who are nearest to you 
may require ?” 

She looked at him with a perplexed gaze, and 
said, “ Yes, sir, certainly.” 

“Very well, ma’am; then I must go up to 
town at once. It’s a very serious affair, ma’am, 
and I’ll do my duty by you.” 

“Can you understand them, sir?” 

“ N — no — that is, I must see counsel in Lon- 
don ; I’ll be back again in a day or two. Leave 
it all to me, ma’am, and the moment I know any 
thing for certain, you shall know all about it.” 

The old woman asked the question as one 
speaks in their sleep, without hearing the answer. 
Her finger was to her lip, and she was looking 
down with a knitted brow. 

“Ay, she was proud — I promised — proud — she 
was — very high — it will be in Penruthyn, she 
told me she would be buried there — Dowager 
Lady Verney ! I wish, sir, it had been I.” 

She drew her cloak about her and left the 
room, and he accompanied her with the candle 
to the hall-door, and saw her hurry up the 
street. 

Now and then a passenger looked at the tall 
cloaked figure gliding swiftly by, but no one rec- 
ognized her. 

The attorney was gaping after her in deep 
abstraction, and when she was out of sight he 
repeated, with a resolute wag of his head — 

“I tcill do my duty by you — and a serious 
affair, upon my soul! A very serious affair it is .” 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


And so he closed the door, and returned to 
his sitting-room in deep thought, and very 
strange excitement, and continued reading those 
papers till one o’clock in the morning. 


CHAPTEE LXV. 

MR. DINGAVELL AND MRS. MERVYN CONVERSE. 

Cleve was assiduous in consoling Miss Caro- 
line Oldys, a duty specially imposed upon him 
by the voluntary absence of Lady Wimbledon, 
who spent four or five hours every day at Mal- 
ory, with an equally charitable consideration for 
the spirits of Lord Verney, who sat complaining 
in pain and darkness. 

Every day he saw more or less of the Eev. 
Isaac Dixie, but never alluded to his midnight 
interview with him at Clay Eectory. Only 
once, a little abruptly, he had said to him, as 
they walked together on the green — 

“ I say, you must manage your duty for two 
Sundays more — you must stay here for the fu- 
neral — that will be on Tuesday week.” 

Cleve said no more; but he looked at him 
with a fixed meaning in his eye, with which the 
clergyman somehow could not parley. 

At the post-office, to which Miss Oldys had 
begged his escort, a letter awaited him. His 
address Avas traced in the delicate and peculiar 
hand of that beautiful being who in those very 
scenes had once filled ev’ery hour of his life Avith 
dreams, and doubts, and hopes ; and now how 
did he feel as those slender characters met his 
eye ? Shall I say, as the murderer feels Avhen 
some relic of his buried crime is accidentally 
turned up before his eyes — chilled Avith a pain 
tliat reaches on to doomsday — with a tremor of 
madness — with an insufferable disgust? 

Smiling, he put it Avith his other letters in 
his pocket, and felt as if eA^ery eye looked on 
him Avith suspicion — with dislike ; and as if 
little voices in the air Avere whispering, “It is 
from his Avife — from his Avife — from his Avife.” 

Tom Sedley was almost by his side, and had 
just got his letters — filling him, too, Avith dis- 
may — posted not ten minutes before from Mal- 
ory, and smiting his last hope to the centre. 

“Look at it, CleA'e,” he said, half an hour 
later. “ I thought all these things might haA'e 
softened him — his own illness and his mother’s 
death ; and the Etherages — by Jove, I think 
lie’ll ruin them ; the poor old man is going to 
leaA^e Hazelden in two or three weeks, and — 
he’s utterly ruined I think, and all by that d — d 
hiAvsuit, that Larkin knows perfectly Avell Lord 
Verney can never succeed in ; but in the mean 
time it Avill be the ruin of that nice family, 
tliat were so happy there ; and look — here it is 
— my oAvn letter returned — so insulting — like a 
beggar’s petition ; and this note — not eA’en 
signed by him.” 

“ Lord Verney is indisposed ; he has already 
expressed his fixed opinion upon the subject 
referred to in Mr. Sedley’s statement, Avhich 


163 

he returns ; he declines discussing it, and re- 
fers Mr. Sedley again to his solicitor.” 

So, disconsolate Sedley, having opened his 
griefs to Cleve, went on to Hazelden, where he 
Avas only too sure to meet with a thoroughly 
sympathetic audience. 

A Aveek passed, and more. And now came 
the day of old Lady Verney’s funeral. It Avas 
a long procession — tenants on horseback, ten- 
ants on foot — the carriages of all the gentle- 
men round about. 

On its way to Penruthyn Priory the proces- 
sion passed by the road, ascending the steep by 
the little church of Llanderris, and full in view, 
through a vista in the trees, of the upper win- 
doAvs of the steAvard’s house. 

Our friend Mr. Dingwell, Avffiose journey had 
cost him a cold, got his clothes on for this oc- 
casion, and was in the Avindow, AA'ith a field- 
glass, which had amused him on the road from 
London. 

He had called up Mrs. Mervyn’s servant-girl 
to help him to the names of such people as she 
might recognize. 

As the hearse, Avith its grove of sable plumes, 
passed up the steep road, he was grave for a 
fcAV minutes ; and he said — 

“That was a good Avoman. Well for you, 
ma’am, if you have eA^er one-twentieth part of 
her virtues. She did not know hoAV to make 
her virtues pleasant, though ; she liked to liaA^e 
people afraid of her; and if you have people 
afraid of you, my dear, the odds are they’ll 
hate you. We can’t have eA^ery thing — virtue 
and softness, fear and loA^e — in this queer world. 
An excellent — severe — most lady-like woman. 
What are they stopping for noAv ? Oh ! There 
they go again. The only ungenteel thing she 
ever did is what she has begun to do noAv — to 
rot ; but she’ll do it alone, in the dark, you 
see ; and there is a right and a wrong, and she 
did some good in her day.” 

The end of his queer homily he spoke in a 
tone a little gloomy, and he followed the hearse 
aAvhile Avith his glass. 

In tAVO or three minutes more the girl thought 
she heard him sob ; and looking up, with a 
shock, perceived that his face was gleaming 
AA'ith a sinister laugh. 

“ What a precious coxcomb that felloAv Cleve 
is — chief mourner, egad — and he does it pretty 
Avell. ‘My inky cloak, good mother.’ He 
looks so sorry, I almost believe he’s thinking 
of his uncle’s Avedding. ‘ Thrift, Horatio, 
thrift!’ I say, miss — I always forget your 
name. My dear young lady, be so good, Avill 
you, as to say I feel better to-day, and should 
be very happy to see Mrs. Mervyn, if she could 
give me ten minutes ?” 

So she ran down upon her errand, and he 
drew back from the AvindoAv, suffering the cur- 
tain to fall back as before, darkening the room ; 
and Mr. DingAA'ell sat himself doAvn, Avith his 
back to the little light that entered, draAving 
his rohe-de-chamhre about him and resting his 
chin on his hand. 


164 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


^‘Come in, ma’am,” said Mr. Dingwell, in 
answer to a tap at the door, and Mrs. Mervyn 
entered. She looked in the direction of the 
speaker, but could see only a shadowy outline, 
the room vas so dark. 

‘‘Pray, madam, sit down on the chair I’ve 
set for you by the table. I’m at last well 
enough to see you. You’ll have questions to 
put to me. I’ll be happy to tell you all I know. 
I was with poor Arthur Verney, as you are 
aware, when he died.” 

“I have but one hope now, sir — to see him 
hereafter Oh, sir! did he think of his un- 
happy soul — of heaven ?” 

“ Of the other place he did think, ma’am. 
I’ve heard him wish evil people, such as clum- 
sy servants and his brother here, in it ; but I 
suppose you mean to ask was he devout — eh ?” 

“Yes, sir; it has been my prayer, day and 
night, in my long solitude. What prayers, 
what prayers, what terrible prayers, God only 
knows.” 

“ Yoar prayers were heard, ma’am ; he was 
a saint. 

“Thank God!” 

“The most punctual, edifying, self-torment- 
ing saint I ever had the pleasure of knowing in 
any quarter of the globe,” said Mr. Dingwell. 

“ OA .' thank God.” 

“ His reputation for sanctity in Constantino- 
ple was immense, and at both sides of the Bos- 
phorus he was the admiration of the old women 
and the wonder of the little boys, and an ex- 
cellent Dervish, a friend- of his, who was 
obliged to leave after having been bastinadoed 
for a petty larceny, told me he has seen even 
the town dogs and the asses hold down their 
heads, upon my life, as he passed by, to receive 
his blessing !” 

“ Superstition — but still it shows, sir — ” 

“ To be sure it does, ma’am.” 

“It shows that his sufferings — my darling 
Arthur — had made a real change.” 

“ Oh ! a complete change, ma’am. Egad, a 
very complete change, indeed!'' 

‘ ‘ When he left this, sir, he was — oh ! my 
darling ! thoughtless, volatile — ” 

“ An infidel and a scamp — eh ? So he told 
me, ma’am.” 

“And I have prayed that his sufferings 
might be sanctified to him,” she continued, 

‘ ‘ and that he might be converted, even though 
I should never see him more.” 

“ So he was, ma’am ; I can vouch for that,” 
said Mr. Dingwell. 

Again poor Mrs. Mervyn broke into a rap- 
ture of tlianksgiving. 

“Vastly lucky you’ve been, ma’am ; all your 
prayers about him, egad, seem to have been 
granted. Pity you did not pray for something 
he might have enjoyed more. 13 ut all’s for the 
best — eh ?” 

“ All things work together for good — all for 
good,” said the old lady, looking upward, with 
her hands clasped. 

“And you’re as happy at his conversion, 


ma’am, as the Ulema who received him into 
the faith of Mahomet — happier, I really think. 
Lucky dog ! what interest he inspires, what 
joy he diffuses, even now, in Mahomet’s para- 
dise, I dare say. -It’s worth while being a sin- 
ner for the sake of the conversion, ma’am.” 

‘‘Sir — sir, I can’t understand,” gasped the 
old lady, after a pause. 

“No difficulty, ma’am, none in the world.” 

“For God’s sake, don't; I think I’m going 
mad," cried the poor woman. 

“ Mad, my good lady ! Not a bit. What’s 
the matter? Is it Mahomet? You’re not 
afraid of him ?" 

“ Oh, sir, for the Lord's sake tell me what 
you mean ?” implored she, wildly. 

“ I mean that, to be sure ; what I say," he 
replied. “ I mean that the gentleman complied 
with the custom of the country — don’t you see ? 
— and submitted to Kismet. It was his fate, 
ma’am ; it’s the invariable condition ; and 
they’d have handed him over to his Christian 
compatriots to murder, according to Frank law, 
otherwise. So, ma’am, he shaved his head, 
put on a turban — they wore turbans then — and, 
with his Koran under his arm, walked into a 
mosque, and said his say about Allah and the 
rest, and has been safe ever since.” 

“ Oh, oh, oh!” cried the poor old lady, trem- 
bling in a great agony. 

“ Ho! no, ma’am ; ’twasn’t much,” said he, 
briskly. 

“All, all ; the last hope !” cried she, wildly. 

“ Don’t run away with it, pray. It’s a veiy 
easy and gentleman-like faith, Mahometanism 
— except in the matter of wine ; and even that 
you can have, under the rose, like other things 
here, ma’am, tliat aren’t quite orthodox ; eh ?” 
said Mr. Dingwell. 

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!” moaned the poor 
lady distractedly, wringing her hands. 

“ Suppose, ma’am, we pray it may turn out 
to have been the right way. Very desirable, 
since Arthur died in it,” said Mr. Dingwell. 

“Oh, sir, oh! I couldn’t have believed it. 
Oh, sir, this shock — this frightful shock!” 

“ Courage, madam ! Console yourself. Let 
us hope he didn’t believe this any more than 
the other,” said Mr. Dingwell. 

Mrs. Mervyn leaned her cheek on her thin 
clasped hands, and was rocking herself to and 
fro in her misery. 

“ I was with him, you know, in his last mo- 
ments,’’ said Mr. Dingwell, shrugging sympa- 
thetically, and crossing his leg. “ It’s always 
interesting, those last moments — eh ? — and ex- 
quisitely affecting, even — particularly if it isn’t 
very clear where the fellow’s going.” 

A tremulous moan escaped the old lady. 

“And he called for some wine. That’s com- 
forting, and has a flavor of Christianity, eh? 
A relapse, don’t you think, very nearly ? — at so 
unconvivial a moment. It must have been 
principle; eh? Let us hope.” 

The old lady’s moans and sighs were her 
answers. 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


165 


“ And now that I think on it, he must have 
died a Christian,” said Mr. Dingwell, briskly. 

The old lady looked up, and listened breath- 
lessly. 

“ Because, after we thought he was speech- 
less, there was one of those what-d’ye-call-’ems 
— begging dervish fellows — came into the room, 
and kept saying one of their long yarns about 
the prophet Mahomet, and my dying friend 
made me a sign ; so I put my ear to his lips, 
and he said distinctly, ‘He be d — d!’ — I beg 
your pardon ; but last words are always pre- 
cious.” 

Here came a pause. 

Mr. Dingwell was quite bewildering this trem- 
bling old lady. 

“And the day before,” resumed Mr. Ding- 
well, “poor Arthur said, ‘They’ll bury me 
here under a turban ; but I should like a mural 
tablet in old Penruthyn church. They’d be 
ashamed of my name, I think; so they can 
put on it the date of my decease, and the sim- 
ple inscription, “Check-mate.”’ But whether 
he meant to himself or his creditors I’m not 
able to say.” 

Mrs. Mervyn groaned. 

“ It’s very interesting. And he had a mes- 
sage for you, ma’am. He called you by a 
name of endearment. He made me stoop, lest 
I should miss a word, and he said, ‘Tell my 
little linnet,’ said he — ” 

But here Mr. Dingwell was interrupted. A 
wild cry, a wild laugh, and — “ Oh, Arthur, it’s 
youV' 

He felt, as he would have said, “ oddly” for 
a moment — a sudden flood of remembrance, 
of youth. The w’orn form of that old outcast, 
who had not felt the touch of human kindness 
for nearly thirty years, was clasped in the 
strain of an* inextinguishable and angelic love 
— in the thin arms of one \jkewise faded and 
old, and near the long sleep in which the heart 
is fluttered and pained no more. 

There was a pause, a faint laugh, a kind of 
sigh, and he said — 

“ So you’ve found me out.” 

“Darling, darling! you’re not changed?” 

“Change!” he answered, in a low tone. 
“There’s a change, little linnet, from summer 
to winter ; where the flowers were the snow is. 
Draw the curtain, and let us look on one an- 
other.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE GREEK MERCHANT SEES LORD YERNEY. 

Our friend, Wynne Williams, made a much 
longer stay than he had expected in London. 
From him, too, Tom Sedley received about this 
time a mysterious summons to town, so urgent 
and so solemn that he felt there was something 
extraordinary in it ; and on consultation with 
the Etherage girls, those competent advisers 
settled that he should at once obey it. 


Tom wrote to Agnes on the evening of his 
arrival — 

“ I have been for an hour with Wynne Wil- 
liams ; you have no notion what a good fellow 
he is, and what a wonderfully clever fellow. 
There is something very good in prospect for 
me, but not yet certain, and I am bound not to 
tell a human being. But t/om, I will, of course, 
the moment I know it for certain. It may 
turn out nothing at all; but we are working 
very hard all the same.” 

In the mean time, down at Malory, things 
were taking a course of which the good people 
of Cardyllian had not a suspicion. 

With a little flush over his grim, brown face, 
with a little jaunty swagger, and a slight screw- 
ing of his lips, altogether as if he had sipped a 
little too much brandy and water — though he 
had nothing of the kind that day — giggling and 
chuckling over short sentences ; with a very de- 
termined knitting of his eyebrows, and some- 
thing in his eyes unusually sinister, which a 
sense of danger gives to a wicked face, Mr. 
Dingwell walked down the clumsy stairs of the 
steward’s house, and stood within the hatch. 

There he meditated for a few moments, with 
compressed lips, and a wandering sweep of his 
eyes along the stone urns and rose-bushes that 
stood in front of the dwarf wall, which is back- 
ed by the solemn old trees of Malory. 

“ In for a penny, in for a pound.” 

And he muttered a Turkish sentence, I sup- 
pose equivalent ; and thus fortified by the wis- 
dom of nations, he stepped out upon the broad 
gravel walk, looked about him for a second or 
two, as if recalling recollections, in a sardonic 
mood, and then walked round the corner to the 
front of the house, and up the steps, and pulled 
at the door bell ; the knocker had been re- 
moved in tenderness to Lord Verney’s irritable 
nerves. 

Two of his tall footmen in pow’der and livery 
were there, conveyed into this exile from Ware ; 
for calls of inquiry were made here, and a 
glimpse of state was needed to overawe the 
bumpkins. 

“ His lordship was better ; was sitting in the 
drawing-room ; might possibly see the gentle- 
man ; and who should he say, please ?” 

“ Say Mr. Dingwell, the great Greek mer- 
chant, who has a most important communication 
to make.” 

His lordship would see Mr. Dingwell. Mr. 
Dingwell’s name was called to a second foot- 
man, who opened a door, and announced him. 

Lady Wimbledon, who had been sitting at 
the window reading aloud to Lord Verney 
at a little chink of light, abandoned her 
pamphlet, and rustled out by another door, as 
the Greek merchant entered. 

Dim at best, and very unequal was the light. 
The gout had touched his lordship’s right eye- 
ball, which was still a little inflamed, and the 
doctor insisted on darkness. 

There was something diabolically waggish in 
Mr. Dingwell’s face, if the noble lord could only 


IGG 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


have seen it distinctly, as he entered the room. 
He was full of fun ; he was enjoying a coming 
joke, with perhaps a little spice of danger in it, 
and could hardly repress a giggle. 

The viscount requested Mr. Dingwell to take 
a chair, and that gentleman waited till the serv- 
ant had closed the door, and then thanked 
Lord Verney in a strange nasal tone, quite un- 
like Mr. Dingwell’s usual voice. 

“ I come here, Lord Verney, with an impor- 
tant communication to make. I could have 
made it to some of the people about you — and 
you have able professional people — or to your 
nephew ; but it is a pleasure, Lord Verney, to 
speak instead to the cleverest man in England.” 

The noble lord bowed a little affably, although 
he might have questioned Mr. Dingwell’s right 
to pay him compliments in his own house ; but 
Mr. Dingwell’s fiddlestick had touched the right 
string, and the noble instrument made music 
accordingly. Mr. Dingwell, in the dark, look- 
ed very much amused. 

“I can hardly style myself that, Mr. Ding- 
well.” 

“I speak of business, Lord Verney; and I 
adopt the language of the world in saying the 
cleverest man in England.” 

‘ ‘ I’m happy to say my physician allows me 
to listen to reading, and to talk a little, and 
there can be no objection to a little business 
either,” said Lord Verney, passing by the com- 
pliment this time, but, on the whole, good- 
humoredly disposed toward Mr. Dingwell. 

“ I’ve two or three things to mention. Lord 
Verney ; and the first is money.” 

Lord Verney coughed dryly. He was sud- 
denly recalled to a consciousness of Mr. Ding- 
well’s character. 

“Money, my lord. The name makes you 
cough, as smoke does a man with the asthma. 
I’ve found it all my life as hard to keep, as you 
do to part Avith. If I had but possessed Lord 
Verney ’s instincts and abilities, I should have 
been at this moment one of the wealthiest men 
in England.” 

Mr. Dingwell rose as he said this, and boAved 
toward Lord Verney. 

“I said I should name it first; but as your 
lordship coughs, Ave had, perhaps, best discuss 
it last. Or, indeed, if it makes your lordship 
cough very much, perhaps Ave had better post- 
pone it, or leave it entirely to your lordship’s 
discretion— as I Avouldn’t for the world send 
this little attack into your chest.” 

Lord Verney thought Mr. DingAvell less un- 
reasonable, but also more flighty, than he had 
supposed. 

You are quite at liberty, sir, to treat your 
subjects in what order you please. I Avish you 
to understand that I haA^e no objection to hear 
you ; and— and you may proceed.” 

“ The next is a question on Avhich I presume 
we shall find ourselves in perfect accord. I had 
the honor, as you are very Avell aAvare, of an in- 
timate acquaintance Avith your late brother, the 
Honorable Arthur Verney, and beyond measure 


I admired his talents, Avhich were second in 
brilliancy only to your own. I admired even 
his principles — but I see they make you cough 
also. They were, it is true, mephitic, sulphur- 
ous, such as might Avell take your breath, 
or that of any other moral man, quite aAv^ay; 
i but they had Avhat I call the Verney stamp up- 
on them ; they were perfectly consistent, and 
quite harmonious. His, my lord, Avas the in- 
tense and unflinching rascality, if you permit 
me the phrase, of a man of genius, and I hon- 
ored it. Now, my lord, his adventures AAere 
curious, as you are aAvare, and I haA'e them at 
my fingers’ ends — his crimes, his escape, and, 
above all, his life at Constantinople — ha, ha, ha! 
It would make your hair stand on end. And 
to think he should have been your brother! 
Upon my soul! Though, as I said, the genius — 
the genius, Lord Verney — the inspiration Avas 
there. In that he was your brother.” 

“I’m aware, sir, that he had talent, Mr. 
Dingwell, and could speak — about it. At Ox- 
ford he was considered the most promising 
young man of his time — almost.” 

“Yes, except you; but you were two years 
later.” 

“Yes, exactly. I was precisely tAvo years 
later about it. ” 

“ Yes, my lord, you were alAA'ays about it ; so 
he told me. No matter what it Avas — a book, 
or a boot-jack, or a bottle of port, you Avere al- 
Avays about it. It Avas a way you had, he said 
— about it.” 

“ I wasn’t aware that any one remarked any 
such thing — about it, ’’said Lord Verney, very 
loftily. 

It daAvned dimly upon him that Mr. Dingwell, 
Avho Avas a A^ery irregular person, Avas possibly 
intoxicated. But Mr. DingAvell Avas speaking, 
though in a A'ery nasal, odd voice, yet Avith a 
clear and sharp articulation, and in a cool way, 
not the least like a man in that sort of incapaci- 
ty. Lord Verney concluded, therefore, that 
Mr. DingAvell Avas either a remarkably imper- 
tinent person, or most in supportably deficient 
in the commonest tact. I think he Avould have 
risen, even at the inconvenience of suddenly 
disturbing his flanneled foot, and intimated 
that he did not feel quite AA^ell enough to contin- 
ue the conversation, had he not knoAvn some- 
thing of Mr. Dingwell’s dangerous temper, and 
equally dangerous knoAAdedge and opportuni- 
ties ; for had they not subsidized Mr. DingAvell, 
in the most unguarded manner, and on the 
most monstrous scale, pending the inA'estigation 
and proof before the Lords ? “It aa'us inevita- 
ble,” Mr. Larkin said, “but also a little aAvk- 
ward ; although they kneAV that the man had 
sworn nothing but the truth.” “ Very aAvk- 
Avard, Lord Verney thought, and therefore he 
endured Mr. DingAA^ell. 

But the “great Greek merchant,” as, I sup- 
pose half jocularly, he termed himself, not only 
seemed odious at this moment, by reason of his 
impertinence, but also formidable to Lord Ver- 
ney, Avho, haAung waked from his dream that 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


1G7 


Dingwell would fly beyond the Golden Horn 
when once his evidence was given, and the cor- 
onet well fixed on the brows of the Hon. Kilfyn 
Fulke Verney, found himself still haunted by 
this vampire bat, which hung by its hooked wing, 
sometimes in the shadows of Rosemg-jy Court — 
sometimes in those of the old steward’s house, 
— sometimes hovering noiselessly nearer — al- 
ways with its eyes upon him, threatening to 
fasten on his breast, and drain him. 

The question of money he would leave “to 
his discretion.” But what did his impertinence 
mean? Was it not minatory? And to what 
exorbitant sums in a choice of evils might not 
“ discretion” point ? 

“This d — d Mr. Dingwell,” thought Lord 
Verney, “will play the devil with my gout. I 
wish he was at the bottom of the Bosphorus.” 

“Yes. And your brother, Arthur — there 
\vere points in which he differed from you. 
Unless I’m misinformed, he was a first-rate 
cricketer, the crack bat of their team, and you 
were nothing ; he was one of the best Grecians 
in the university, and you were plucked.” 

“I — I don’t exactly see the drift of your 
rather inaccurate and extremely offensive ob- 
servations, Mr. Dingwell,” said Lord Verney, 
wincing and flushing in the dark. 

‘ ‘ Offensive ? Good heaven ! But I’m talk- 
ing to a Verney, to a man of genius ; and I say, 
how the devil could I tell that truth could of- 
fend, either? With this reflection I forgive 
myself, and I go on to say what will interest 
you.” 

Lord Verney, who had recovered his presence 
of mind, here nodded, to intimate that he was 
ready to hear him. 

“ Well, there were a few other points, but I 
need not mention them, in which you differed. 
You were both alike in this — each was a genius 
— you were an opaque and obscure genius, he 
a brilliant one ; but each being a genius, there 
must have been a sympathy, notwithstanding 
his being a publican and you a — not exactly a 
Pharisee, but a paragon of prudence.” 

“I really, Mr. Dingwell, must request — you 
see I’m far from w'ell, about it — that you’ll be 
so good as a little to abridge your remarks ; 
and I don’t want to hear — you can easily, I 
hope, understand — my poor brother talked of 
in any but such terms as a brother should 
listen to.” 

“ That arises. Lord Verney, from your not 
having had the advantage of his society for so 
very many years. Now, I knew him intimate- 
ly, and I can undertake to say he did not care 
twopence what any one on earth thought of 
him, and it rather amused him painting infer- 
nal caricatures of himself, as a fiend or a mon- 
key, and he often made me laugh by the hour 
— ha, ha, ha ! he amused himself with revealed 
religion, and with every thing sacred, sometimes 
even with you — ha, ha, ha — he had certainly a 
wonderful sense of the ridiculous.” 

“May I repeat my request, if it does not ap- 
pear to you very unreasonable ?” again inter- 


rupted Lord Verney, “ and may I entreat to 
know what it is you wi^h me to understand 
about it, in as few words as you can, sir?” 

“Certainly, Lord Verney; it is just this. 
As I have got materials, perfectly authentic, 
from my deceased friend, both about himself — 
horribly racy, you may suppose — ha, ha, ha — 
about your grand-uncle Pendel — you’ve heard 
of him, of course — about your aunt Deborah, 
poor thing, who sold mutton pies in Chester — 
I was thinking — suppose I write a memoir — 
Arthur alone deserves it ; you pay the expenses ; 
I take the profits, and I throw you in the copy- 
right for a few thousand more, and call it 
‘Snuffed out lights of the Peerage,’ or some- 
thing of the kind ? I think something is due 
to Arthur, don’t you ?” 

“I think you can hardly be serious, Mr. — 
Mr.—” 

“Perfectly serious, upon my soul, my lord. 
Could any thing be more curious ? Eccentrici- 
ty’s the soul of genius, and you’re proud of your 
genius, I hoped' 

“ What strikes me, Mr. Dingwell, amounts, in 
short, to something like this. My poor brother, 
he has been unfortunate, about it, and — and 
worse, and he has done things, and I ask my- 
self why there should be an effort to obtrude 
him, and I answer myself, there’s no reason, 
about it, and therefore I vote to have every 
thing as it is, and I shall neither contribute my 
countenance, about it, nor money to any such 
undertaking, or — or — undertaking. ” 

“ Then my book comes to the ground, egad.” 

Lord Verney simply raised his head with a 
little sniff, as if he were smelling at a snuff-box. 

“Well, Arthur must have something, you 
know.” 

“My brother, the Honorable Arthur Kiffyn 
Verney, is past receiving any thing at my 
hands, and I don’t think he probably looked for 
any thing, about it, at any time from yours." 

“ Well, but it’s just the time for what I’m 
thinking of. You wouldn’t give him. a tomb- 
stone in his life-time, I suppose, though you are 
a genius. Now, I happen to know he wish- 
ed a tombstone. You'd like a tombstone, though 
not now — time enough in a year or two, when 
you’re fermenting in your lead case.” 

“ I’m not thinking of tombstones at present, 
sir, and it appears to me that you are giving 
yourself a very unusual latitude — about it.” 

“ I don’t mean in the mausoleum at Ware. 
Of course that’s a place where people who have 
led a decorous life putrify together. I meant 
at the small church of Penruthyn, where the 
scamps await judgment.” 

“ I — a — don’t see that such a step is properly 
for the consideration of any persons — about it — 
outside the members of the Verney family, or 
more properly, of any but the representatives of 
that family, ’’said Lord Verney, loftily, “and 
you’ll excuse my not admitting, or — or, in fact, 
admitting any right in any one else. 

“ He wished it immensely.” 

“I can’t understand why, sir.” 


168 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


‘‘ Nor I ; but I suppose you all get them — all 
ticketed — eh? and I’d write the epitaph, only 
putting in essentials, though, egad ! in such a 
life it would be as long as a newspaper.” 

“I’ve already expressed my opinion, and — 
and things, and I have nothing to add.” 

“Then the tombstone comes to the ground 
also?” ^ 

“ Any thing wore, sir ?” 

“But, my lord, he showed an immense con- 
sideration for you.” 

“ I don’t exactly recollect /^o^o.” 

“ By dying — you’ve got hold of every thing, 
don’t you see, and you grudge him a tablet in 
the little church of Penruthyn, by gad ! I told 
your nephew he wished it, and I tell you he 
wished it ; it’s not stinginess, it’s your mean 
pride.” 

“You seem, Mr. Dingwell, to fancy that 
there’s no limit to the impertinence I’ll submit 
to.” 

‘ ‘ I’m sure there’s none almost — you better 
not ring the bell — you better think twice — he 
gave me that message, and he also left me a 
mallet — quite a toy — but a single knock of it 
would bring Verney House, or Ware, or this 
place, about your ears.” 

The man was speaking in quite another voice 
now, and in the most awful tones Lord Verney 
had ever heard in his life, and to his alarmed 
and sickly eyes it seemed as if the dusky figure 
of his visitor were dilating in the dark like an 
evoked Genii. 

“ I — I think about it — it’s quite unaccounta- 
ble — all this.” Lord Verney wa? looking at the 
stranger as he spoke, and groping with his left 
hand for the old-fashioned bell-rope which used 
to hang near him in the library in Verney 
House, forgetting that there was no bell of any 
sort within his reach at that moment. 

“I’m not going to take poor dear Arthur’s 
mallet out of my pocket, for the least tap of it 
would make all England ring and roar, sir. No, 
I’ll make no noise ; you and I, sir, tete-a-tete. 
I’ll have no go-between ; no Larkin, no Levi, 
no Cleve ; you and I’ll settle it alone. Your 
brother was a great Grecian, they used to call 
him Odvaaeva — Ulysses. Do you remember? 
I said I was the great Greek merchant? We 
have made an exchange together. You must 
pay. What shall I call myself, for Dingwell 
isn’t my name. I’ll take a new one — To gev 
TrpittTOv Ovriv *eavTOv ittikoXu — ST rudavde du<pev'ys 
Kca r]v (SeXovg Odvcrcrvv ovopa^eaQai e(prj. In 
English — at first he called himself Outis — No- 
body ; but so soon as he had escaped, and was 
out of the javelin’s reach, he said that he was 
named Odusseus — Ulysses, and here he is. 
This is the return of Ulysses !” 

There had been a sudden change in Mr. 
Dingwell’s Yankee intonation. The nasal tones 
were heard no more. He approached the win- 
dow, and said, with a laugh, pulling the shutter 
more open — 

“Why, Kilfyn, you fool, don’t you know 
me?” 


There was a silence. 

“ My great God ! my great God of heaven !” 
came from the white lips of Lord Verney. 

“ Yes ; God’s over all,” said Arthur Verney, 
with a strange confusion, between a sneer and 
something more genuine. 

There was a long pause. 

“Ha, ha, ha ! don’t make a scene ! Not such 
a muff?” said Dingwell. 

Lord Verney was staring at him with a face 
white and peaked as that of a corpse, and whis- 
pering still — “My God! my great God!” so 
that Dingwell, as I still call him, began to grow 
uneasy. 

“ Come ; don’t you make mountains of mole- 
hills. What the devil’s all this fuss about? 
Here, drink a little of this.” He poured out 
some water, and Lord Verney did sip a little, 
and then gulped down a good deal, and then 
he looked at Arthur again fixedly, and groaned. 

“That’s right — never mind. I’ll not hurt 
you. Don’t fancy I mean to disturb you. I 
canH, you know, if I wished it ever so much. I 
daren’t show — I know it. Don’t suppose I want 
to bully you ; the idea’s impracticable. I looked 
in merely to tell you, in a friendly way, who I 
am. You must do something handsome for me, 
you know. Devil’s in it if a fellow can’t get a 
share of his own money, and, as I said before, 
we’ll have no go-betweens, no Jews or attorneys. 
D — n them all — but settle it between ourselves, 
like brothers. Sip a little more water.” 

“ Arthur, Arthur, I say, yes ; good God, I feel 
I shall have a good deal to say ; but — my head, 
and things — I’m a little perplexed still, and I 
must have a glass of wine, about it, and I can’t 
do it now ; no, I can’t.” 

“ I don’t live far away, you know ; and I’ll 
look in to-morrow — we’re not in a hnrry.” 

‘ ‘ It was a strange idea, Arthur. Good Lord, 
have mercy on me !” 

“ Not a bad one, eh?” 

“ Very odd, Arthur ! — God forgive you.” 

“Yes, my dear Kiffyn, and you, too.” 

“The coronet — about it? I’m placed in a 
dreadful position, but you shan’t be compro- 
mised, Arthur. Tell them I’m not very well, 
and some wine, I think — a little chill.” 

“And to-morrow I can look in again, quiet- 
ly,” said the Greek merchant, “or whenever 
you like, and I shan’t disclose our little confi- 
dence.” 

“ It’s going — every thing, every thing ; I shall 
see it by and by,” said Lord Verney, helplessly. 

And thus the interview ended, and Mr. Ding- 
well in the hall gave the proper alarm about 
Lord Verney. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

A BKEAK-DOWN. 

About an hour after, a message came down 
from Malory for the doctor. 

“How is his lordship?” asked the doctor, 
eagerly. 


THE TENANTS OE MALOKY. 


No, it isn’t him^ sure ; it is the old lady is 
ta ccn very bad.” 

Lady Wimbledon ?” 

“No, sure. Her ladyship’s not there. Old 
Mrs. Mervyn.” 

“ Oh !” said the doctor, tranquilized. “ Old 
Rebecca Mervyn, is it ? And what may be the 
matter with the poor old lady?” 

“Fainting like; one fainting into another, 
sure , and her breath almost gone. She’s very 
bad — as pale as a sheet.” 

“ Is she talking at all?” 

“No, not a word. Sittin’ back in her chair, 
sure.” 

“ Does she know you, or mind what you say 
to her?” 

‘ ‘ Well, no. She’s a-holdin’ that old white- 
headed man’s hand that’s been so long bad 
there, and a-lookin’ at him ; but I don’t think 
she hears nor sees nothin’ myself.” 

“Apoplexy, or the heart, more likely,” ru- 
minated the doctor. “Will you call one of 
those pony things for me?” 

And while the pony carriage was coming to 
the door, he got a few phials together and his 
coat on, being in a hurry ; for he was to play a 
rubber of billiards at the club for five shillings 
at seven o’clock. 

In an hour’s time after the interview with 
Arthur Verney, Lord Verney had wonderfully 
collected his wits. His effects in that depart- 
ment, it is true, were not very much, and per- 
haps the more easily brought together. He 
wrote two short letters — marvelously short for 
him — and sent down to the Verney Arms to re- 
quest the attendance of Mr. Larkin. 

Lord Verney was calm; he was even gen- 
tle ; spoke in his dry way, little, and in a low 
tone. He had the window-shutter opened 
quite, and the curtains drawn back, and seem- 
ed to have forgotten his invalided state, and 
every thing but the revolution which in a mo- 
ment had overtaken and engulfed him — to 
which great anguish with a dry resignation he 
submitted. 

Over the chimney was a little oval portrait of 
his father, the late Lord Verney, taken when 
they wore the hair long, falling back upon their 
shoulders. A pretty portrait, refined, hand- 
some, insolent. How dulled it was by time and 
neglect — how criss-crossed over with little 
cracks ; the evening sun admitted now set it all 
aglow!. 

“A very good portrait. How has it been 
overlooked so long ? It must be preserved ; it 
shall go to Verney House. To Verney House ? 
I forgot.” 

Mr. Jos. Larkin, in obedience to this sudden 
summons, was speedily with Lord Verney. 
With this call a misgiving came. The attorney 
smiled blandly, and talked in his meekest and 
happiest tones ; but people who knew his face 
would have remarked that sinister contraction 
of the eye to which in moments of danger or 
treachery he was subject, and which, in spite of 
his soft tones and child-like smile, betrayed the 


1G9 

fear or the fraud of that vigilant and dangerous 
Christian. 

When he entered the room, and saw Lord 
Verney’s face pale and stern, he had no longer 
a doubt. 

Lord Verney requested Mr. Larkin to sit 
down, and prepare for something that would 
surprise him. 

He then proceeded to tell Mr. Larkin that 
the supposed Mr. Dingwell was, in fact, his 
brother, the Hon. Arthur Verney, and that, 
therefore, he was not Lord Verney, but only as 
before, the Hon. Kiftyn Fulke Verney. 

Mr. Larkin saw that there was an up-hill 
game and a heavy task before him. It was cer- 
tain now, and awful. This conceited and fool- 
ish old nobleman, and that devil incarnate, his 
brother, were to be managed, and those Jew 
people, who might grow impracticable ; and 
doors were to be muffled, and voices lowered, 
and a stupendous secret kept. Still he did not 
despair — if people would only be true to them- 
selves. 

When Lord Verney came to that part of his 
brief narrative where, taking some credit dis- 
mally to himself for his penetration, he stated 
that “notwithstanding that the room was dark 
and his voice disguised, I recognized him ; and 
you ^ may conceive, Mr. Larkin, that when I 
made the discovery I was a good deal disturbed 
about it,” Mr. Larkin threw up his eyes and 
hands — 

“ What a world it is, my dear Lord Verney ! 
for so I persist in styling you still, for this will 
prove virtually no interruption.” 

At the close of his sentence the attorney 
lowered his voice earnestly. 

“I don’t follow you, sir, about it,” replied 
Lord Verney, disconsolately; “for a man who 
has had an illness, he looks wonderfully well, 
and in good spirits and things, and as likely to 
live as \ am, about it.” 

‘ ‘ My remarks, my lord, were directed rather 
to what I may term the animus — the design — of 
this, shall I call it, demonstration, my lord, on 
the part of your lordship’s brother.” 

“ Yes, of course, the animus, about it. But 
it strikes me he’s as likely to outlive me as not.’’ 

•“ My lord, may I venture, in confidence and 
with great respect, to submit, that your lordship 
was hardly judicious in affording him a personal 
interview?” 

“Why, I should hope my personal direction 
of that conversation, and — and things, has been 
such as I should wish, ” said the peer, very loftily. 

“ My lord, I have failed to make myself clear. 
I never questioned the consummate ability with 
which, no doubt, your lordship’s part in that 
conversation was sustained. What I meant to 
convey is, that considering the immense dis- 
tance socially between you, the habitual and 
undeviating eminence of your lordship’s position, 
and the melancholy circle in which it has been 
your brother’s lot to move, your meeting him 
face to face for the purpose of a personal dis- 
cussion of your relations, may lead him to the 


170 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


absurd conclusion that your lordship is, in fact, 
afraid of him.” 

‘ ‘ That, sir, would be a very impertinent con- 
clusion.” 

Quite so, my lord, and render him propor- 
tionably impracticable. Now, I’ll undertake to 
bring him to reason.” The attorney was speak- 
ing very low and sternly, with contracted eyes 
and a darkened face. ‘ ‘ He has been married 
to tlie lady who lives in the house adjoining, 
under the name of Mrs. Mervyn, and to my cer- 
tain knowledge inquiries - have been set in mo- 
tion to ascertain whether there has not been issue 
of that marriage.” 

You may set your mind perfectly at rest 
with regard to that marriage, Mr. Larkin ; the 
whole thing was thoroughly sifted — and things 
— my father undertook it, the late Lord Verney, 
about it ; and so it went on, and was quite ex- 
amined, and it turned out the poor woman had 
been miserably deceived by a mock ceremony, 
and this mock thing was the whole thing ^ and 
there’s nothing more ; the evidence was very 
deplorable, and — and quite satisfactory.” 

Oh I that’s a great weight off my mind,” 
said Larkin, trying to smile, and looking very 
much disappointed, “a great weight, my lord.” 

“I knew it would — yes,” acquiesced Lord 
Verney. 

“And simplifies our dealings with the other 
side ; for if there had been a good marriage, and 
concealed issue male of that marriage, they 
would have used that circumstance to extort 
money'' 

“Well, I don’t see how they could, thmigh; 
for if there had been a child, about it — he’d have 
been heir apparent, don’t you see ? to the title. ” 

“Oh! — a — yes — certainly^ that’s very true, 
my lord; but then there’s none^ so tha^s at 
rest.” 

“I’ve just heard,” interposed Lord Verney, 
“I may observe, that the poor old lady, Mrs. 
Mervyn, is suddenly and dangerously ill.” 

“ Oh ! is she?” said Mr. Larkin very uneasi- 
ly, for she was, if not his queen, at least a very 
valuable pawn upon his chess-board. 

“ Yes ; the doctor thinks she’s actually dying, 
poor old soul!” 

“What a world! What is life? What is 
man?” murmured the attorney with a devout 
feeling of tlie profoundest vexation. “It was 
for this most melancholy character, ” he contin- 
ued ; “ you’ll pardon me, my lord, for so desig- 
nating a relative of your lordship’s — the Honor- 
able Arthur Verney, who has so fraudulently^ I 
will say, presented himself again as a livingclaim- 
ant. Your lordship is aware of course — I 
shall be going up to town possibly by the mail 
train to-night — that the law, if it were permitted 
to act, would remove that obstacle under the old 
sentence of the court.” 

‘ ‘ Good God ! sir, you can’t possibly mean 
that I should have my brother caught and exe- 
cuted ?” exclaimed Lord Verney, turning quite 
white. 

“ Quite the reverse, my lord. I’m — I’m un- 


speakably shocked that I should have so mis- 
conveyed myself,” said Larkin, his tall bald head 
tinged to its top with an ingenuous blush. * ‘ Oh 
no, my lord, I understand the Verney feeling too 
well, thank God, to suppose any thing, I will say, 
so entirely objectionable. I said, my lord, if it were 
permitted^ that is, allowed by simple wom-interfer^ 
ence — your lordship sees — and it is precisely be- 
cause non-interference must bring about that 
catastrophe — for I must not conceal from your 
lordship the fact that there is a great deal of un- 
pleasant talk in the town of Cardyllian already 
— that I purpose running up to town to-night. 
There is a Jew firm, your lordship is aware, who 
have a very heavy judgment against him, and 
the persons of that persuasion are so interlaced, 
as I may say, in matters of business, that I 
should apprehend a communication to them from 
Goldshed & Levi, who, by the bye, to my cer- 
tain knowledge — lohat a world it is ! — have a per- 
son here actually watching Mr. Dingwell, or in 
other words, the unhappy but Honorable Arthur 
Verney, in their interest.” (This was in effect 
true, but the name of this person, which he did 
not care to disclose, was Josiah Larkin.) “If 
I were on the spot, I think I know a way effect- 
ually to stop all action of that sort.” 

“You think they’d arrest him, about it?” 
said Lord Verney. 

“ Certainly, my lord.” 

“ It is very much to be deprecated,” said Lord 
Verney. 

“ And, my lord, if* you will agree to place the 
matter quite' in my hands, and peremptorily to 
decline on all future occasions conceding a per- 
sonal interview. I’ll stake my professional char- 
acter, I effect a satisfactory compromise.” 

“I — I don’t know — I don’t see a compromise 
— »there’s nothing that I see, to settle," said Lord 
Verney. 

“ Every thing, my lord. Paiidon me — your 
lordship mentioned that, in point of fact, you are 
no longer Lord Verney; that being so — technic- 
ally, of course — measures must be taken — in 
short, a — a quiet arrangement with your lord- 
ship’s brother, to prevent any disturbance, and I 
undertake to- effect it, my lord; the nature of 
which will be to prevent the return of the title to 
abeyance, and of the estates to the management 
of the trustees, whose claim for mesne rates and 
the liquidation of the mortgage, I need not tell 
your lordship, would be ruinous to you.” 

“Why, sir — Mr. Larkin — I can hardly be- 
lieve, sir — you can’t mean, or think it possible, 
sir, that I should lend myself to a deception, and 
— and sit in the House of Peers by a fraud, sir ! 
I’d much rather f/ee in the debtor’s prison, about 
it; and T consider myself dishonored by having 
involuntarily heard such an — an idea.” 

Poor, pompous, foolish Lord Verney stood up, 
so dignified and stern in the light of his honest 
horror, that Mr. Larkin, who despised him utter- 
ly, quailed before a phenomenon he could not 
understand. 

Nothing confounded our friend Larkin, as a 
religious man, so much as discovering, after he 


THE TENANTS OE MALORY. 


171 


had a little unmasked, that his client would not 
follow, and left him, as once or twice had hap- 
pened, alone with his dead villainous suggestion, 
to account for it how he could. 

“ Oh dear ! — surely^ my lord, your lordship did 
not imagine^^^ said Mr. Larkin, doing his best, 
‘ ‘ I was — I, in fact — I supposed a case. I only 
went the length of saying that I think — and with 
sorrow I think it — that your lordship’s brother 
has in view an adjustment of his claim, and meant 
to extract^ I fear, a sum of money when he dis- 
closed himself, and conferred with your lordship. 
I meant, merely, of course, that as he thought 
this I would let him think it, and 'allow him to 
disclose his plans, with a view, of course, to deal 
with that information — first, of course, with a 
view to your lordship’s honor, and next your 
lordship’s safety ; but if your lordship did not see 
your way clearly to it — ” 

“ No, I don’t see — I think it most objection- 
able — about it. I know all that concerns me ; 
and I have written to two official persons — one, 
I may say, the minister himself — apprising them 
of the actual position of the title, and asking 
some information as to how I should proceed 
in order to divest myself of it and the estates.” 

“Just what I should have expected from your 
lordship’s exquisite sense of honor,” said Mr. 
Larkin, with a deferential bow, and a counte- 
nance black as thunder. 

That gigantic machine of torture which he 
had been building and dovetailing, with patient 
villainy, atLord Verney’s word fell with a crash, 
like an enchanted castle at its appointed spell. 
Well was it for Lord Yerney that the instinct 
of honor was strong in him, and that he would 
not suffer his vulgar tempter to beguile him in- 
to one indefensible concealment. Had he fall- 
en, that tempter would have been his tyrant. 
He would have held every thing in trust for Mr. 
Jos. Larkin. The effigy of Lord Yerney would, 
indeed, have stood, on state occasions, robed and 
coroneted, with his order, driven down to the 
House, and sat there among hereditary senators ; 
aU around him would have been brilliant and 
luxurious, and the tall bald head of the Christian 
attorney would have bowed down before the out- 
going and the incoming of the phantom. But 
the real peer would have sat cold and dark 
enough, in Jos. Larkin’s dungeon — his robe on 
the wall, a shirt of Nessus — his coronet on a nail, 
a Neapolitan “ cap of silence” — quite tame un- 
der the rat-^like eye of a terror from which he 
never could escape. 

There was a silence here for some time. 
Lord Yerney leaned back with closed eyes, ex- 
hausted. Mr. Larkin looked down on the car- 
pet smiling faintly, and with the tip of one fin- 
ger scratching his bald head gently. The attor- 
ney spoke — Might I suggest, for the safety of 
your lordship’s unhappy brother, that the matter 
should be kept strictly quiet— just for a day or 
two, until I shall have made arrangements for his 
— may I term it — escape.” 

“ Certainly,” said Lord Yerney, looking away 
a little. “ YQS-^that must, of course, be ar- 


ranged ; and — and this marriage — I shall leave 
that decision entirely in the hands of the young 
lady.” Lord Yerney was a little agitated. 
“And I think, Mr. Larkin, I have said every 
thing at present. Good-evening.” 

As Mr. Larkin traversed the hall of Malory, 
scratching the top of his bald head with one fin- 
ger, in profound and black rumination, I am 
afraid his thoughts and feelings amounted to a 
great deal of cursing and swearing. 

“ Sweet evening,” he observed suddenly to 
the surprised servant who opened the door for 
him. He was now standing at the threshold, 
with his hands expanded as if he expected rain, 
and smiling villainously upward toward the 
stars. 

“ Sweet evening,” he repeated, and then bit- 
ing his lip and looking down for a while on the 
gravel, he descended and walked round the cor- 
ner to the steward*s house. 


CHAPTER LXYIII. 

MR. LARKIN ’S TWO MOVES. 

The hatch of the steward’s house sto'Od open, 
and Mr. Larkin entered. There was a girl’s 
voice crying in the room next the hall, and he 
opened the door. 

The little girl was sobbing with her apron to 
her eyes, and hearing the noise she lowered it 
and looked at the door, when the lank form of 
the bald attorney and his sinister face peering 
in met her eyes, and arrested her lamentation 
with a new emotion. 

“It’s only I — Mr. Larkin,” said he. He 
liked announcing himself wherever he went. 
“I want to know how Mrs. Mervyn is now.” 

‘ ‘ Gone dead, sir — about a quarter of an hour 
ago and the child’s lamentation recommenced. 

“Ha! very sad. The doctor here ?” 

“He’s gone, sir.” 

“And you’re certain she’s dead?” 

“Yes, sure, sir,” and she sobbed on. 

“Stop that,” he said, sternly, “just a mo- 
ment— thanks. I want to see Mr. Dingwell, 
the old gentleman who has been staying here — 
where is he ?” 

“In the drawing-room, sir, please,” said the 
child, a good deal frightened. And to the draw- 
ing-room he mounted. 

Light was streaming from a door a little open, 
and a fragrance also of a peculiar tobacco, which 
he recognized as that of Mr.Dingwell’s chibouque. 
There was a sound of feet upon the floor of the 
room above, which Mr. Larkin’s ear received as 
those of persons employed in arranging the dead 
body. 

I w'ould be perhaps wronging Mr. Dingwell, 
as I still call him, to say that he smoked like a 
man perfectly indifferent. On the contrary, his 
countenance looked lowering and furious — so 
much so that Mr. Larkin removed his hat, a 
courtesy which he had intended studiously to 
omit. 


172 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


‘‘ Oh ! Mr. Dingwell,” said he,' ‘‘I need not 
introduce myself.” 

“No, I prefer your withdrawing yourself and 
shutting the door,” said Dingwell. 

“Yes, in a moment, sir. I merely wished to 
mention that Lord Verney — I mean your broth- 
er, sir — has fully apprised me of the conversa- 
tion with which you thought it prudent to favor 
him.” 

“ You’d rather have been the medium your- 
self, I fancy. Something to be made of such a 
situation? Hey! but you 5/iaw’^.” 

“I don’t know what you mean, sir, by some- 
thing to be made. If I chose to mention your 
name and abode in the city, sir, you’d not enjoy 
the power of insulting others long.” 

“Pooh, sir! I’ve got your letter and my 
brother’s secret. I know my strength. I’m 
steering the lire-ship that will blow you all up, if 
I please ; and you talk of flinging a squib at me, 
you blockhead ! I tell you, sir, you’ll make 
nothing of me ; and now you may as well with- 
draw. There are two things in this house you 
don’t like, though you’ll have enough of them 
one day ; there’s death up stairs, sir, and some- 
thing very like the devil here.” 

Mr. Larkin thought he saw signs of an ap- 
proaching access of the Dingwell mania, so he 
made his most dignified bow, and at the door 
remarked, “ I take my leave, sir, and when next 
we meet I trust I may find you in a veiy differ- 
ent state of mind, and one more favorable to 
business.” 

He had meditated a less covert sneer and 
menace, but modified his speech prudently as he 
uttered it ; but there was still quite enough that 
was sinister in his face, as he closed the door, to 
strike Mr. Dingwell’ s suspicion. 

‘ ‘ Only I’ve got that fellow in my pocket, I’d 
say he was bent on mischief ; but he’s in my 
pocket; and suppose he did, no great matter, 
after all — only dying. I’m not gathering up 
my strength; no — I shall never be the same 
man again — and life so insipid — and that poor 
old doll up stairs. So many things going on 
under the stars, all ending so 

Yes — so many things. There was Cleve, 
chief mourner to-day, chatting now wonderfully 
gayly, with a troubled heart, and a kind of grow- 
ing terror,, to that foolish victim who no more 
suspected him than he did the resurrection of his 
Uncle Arthur, smoking his chibouque only a mile 
away. 

There, too, far away, is a pale, beautiful young 
mother, sitting on the bedside of her sleeping 
boy, weeping silently, as she looks on his happy 
face, and — thinks. 

Mr. Dingwell arrayed in traveling costume, 
suddenly appeared before Lord Verney again. 

“I’m not going to plague you — only this. 
I’ve an idea I shall lose my life if I don’t go to 
London to-night, and I must catch the mail 
train. Tell your people to put the horses to 
your brougham, and drop me at Llwynan.” 

Lord Verney chose to let his brother judge 


for himself in this matter, being only too glad 
to get rid of him. 

Shrieking through tunnels, thundering through 
lonely valleys, gliding over wide, misty plains, 
spread abroad like lakes, the mail train bore 
Arthur Verney, and also — each unconscious of 
the other’s vicinity — Mr. Jos. Larkin toward 
London. 

Mr. Larkin had planned a checkmate in two 
moves. He had been brooding over it in his 
mufflers, sometimes with his eyes shut, sometimes 
with his eyes open — all night, in the corner of 
his carriage. When he stepped out in the morn- 
ing, with his dispatch-box in his hand, whom 
should he meet in the cold grey light upon the 
platform, full front, but Mr. Dingwell. He was 
awfully startled. 

Dingwell had seen him, too ; Larkin had felt, 
as it were, his quick glance touch him, and he 
was sure that Dingwell had observed his mo- 
mentary but significant change of countenance. 
He, therefore, walked up to him, touched him on 
the arm, and said, with a smile — 

“I thought, sir, I recognized you. I trust 
you have an attendant ? Can I do any thing 
for you? Cold, this morning. Hadn’t you 
better draw your muffler up a little about your 
face ?” There w'as a significance about this last 
suggestion which Mr. Dingwell could not mis- 
take, and he complied. “Running down again 
to Malory in a few days, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” said Dingwell. 

“ So shall I, and if quite convenient to you, I 
should wish, sir, to talk that little matter over 
much more carefully, and — can I call a cab for 
you ? I should look in upon you to-day only I 
must be at Brighton, not to return till to-morrow, 
and very busy then, too.” 

They parted. Dingwell did not like it. 

“ He’s at mischief. I’ve thought of every 
thing, and I can’t see any thing that would an- 
swer his game. I don’t like his face.” 

Dingwell felt very oddly. It was all like a 
dream ; an unaccountable horror overcame him. 
He sent out for a medicine that day, which the 
apothecary refused to give to Mrs. Rumble. 
But he wrote an explanatory note alleging that 
he was liable to fits, and so got back just a lit- 
tle, at which he pooh’d and psha’d, and wrote 
to some other apothecaries, and got together 
what he wanted, and told Mrs. Bumble he was 
better. 

He had his dinner as usual in his snuggery in 
Rosemary Court, and sent two letters to the post 
by Mrs. Rumble. That to Lord Verney con- 
tained Larkin’s one unguarded letter inviting 
him to visit England, and with all the caution 
compatible with being intelligible, but still not 
enough — suggesting the audacious game which 
had been so successfully played. A brief and 
pointed commentary in Mr. Dingwell’s hand- 
writing, accompanied this. 

The other enclosed to Wynne Williams, to 
whose countenance he had taken a fancy ; the 
certificate of his marriage to Rebecca’ Mervyn, 
and a reference to the Rev. Thomas Bartlett ; 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


173 


and charged him to make use of it to quiet any 
unfavorable rumors about that poor lady, who 
was the only human being he believed who had 
ever cared much about him. 

When Wynne Williams opened this letter 
he lifted up his hands in wonder. 

“A miracle, by heavens!” he exclaimed. 
“ The most providential and marvelous interpo- 
sition — the only thing we wanted !” 

“ Perhaps I was wrong to break with that vil- 
lain, Larkin,” brooded Mr. Dingwell. “We 
must make it up when we meet. I don’t like it. 
When he saw me this morning his face looked 
like the hangman’s.” 

It was now evening, and having made a very 
advantageous bargain with the Hebrew gentle- 
man who had that heavy judgment against the 
late Hon. Arthur Verney, an outlaw, etc. 
— Mr. Larkin played his first move, and amid 
the screams of Mrs. Rumble, old Dingwell was 
arrested on a warrant against the Hon. Arthur 
Verney, and went away, protesting it was a false 
arrest, to the Fleet. 

Things now looked very awful, and he wrote 
to Mr. Larkin at his hotel, begging of him to 
come and satisfy “ some fools” that he was Mr. 
Dingwell. But Jos. Larkin was not at his inn. 
He had not been there that day, and Dingwell 
began to think that Jos. Larkin had, perhaps, 
told the truth for once, and was actually at 
Brighton. Well, one night in the Fleet was 
not very much ; Larkin would appear next 
morning, and Larkin could, of course, manage 
the question of identity, and settle every thing 
easily, and they would shake hands, and make 
it up. Mr. Dingwell wondered why they had 
not brought him to a sponging-house, but direct 
to the prison. But as things were done under 
the advice of Mr. Jos. Larkin, in whom I have 
every confidence, I suppose there was a reason. 

Mr. Dingwell was of a nature which danger 
excites rather than cows. The sense of adven- 
ture was uppermost. The situation by an odd 
reaction stimulated his spirits, and he grew 
frolicsome. He felt a recklessness that recalled 
his youth. He went down to the flagged yard, 
and made an acquaintance or two, one in slip- 
pers and dressing-gown, another in an evening 
coat buttoned across his breast, and without 
much show of shirt. “Very amusing and gen- 
tleman-like men,” he thought, “though out at 
elbows a little and not caring for solitude, 
he invited them to his room, to supper ; 
and they sat up late ; and the gentleman in the 
black evening coat — an actor in difficulties — 
turned out to be a clever mimic, an inimitable 
singer of comic songs, and an admirable racon^ 
teur — “a very much cleverer man than the 
prime minister, egad !”said Mr. Dingwell. 

One does see very clever fellows in odd situ- 
ations. The race is not always to the swift. The 
moral qualities have something to do with it, 
and industry every thing; and thus very dull 
fellows are often in very high places. The curse 
implies a blessing to the man who accepts its 
condition. “In the sweat of thy brow shalt 


thou eat bread.” Labor is the curse and the 
qualification, also ; and so the dullard who toils 
shall beat the genius who idles. 

Dingwell enjoyed it vastly, and lent the pleas- 
ant fellow a pound, and got to his bed at three 
o’clock in the morning, glad to have cheated so 
much of the night. But tired as he was by his 
journey of the night before, he could not sleep 
till near six o’clock, when he fell into a doze, 
and from it he was awakened oddly. 

It was by Mr. Jos. Larkin’s “second move.” 
Mr. Larkin has great malice, but greater pru- 
dence. No one likes better to give the man 
who has disappointed him a knock, the condi- 
tion being that he disturbs no interest of his own 
by so doing. Where there is a proper consider- 
ation, no man is more forgiving. Where inter- 
est and revenge point the same way, he hits 
very hard indeed. 

Mr. Larkin had surveyed the position care- 
fully. The judgment of the criminal court 
was still on record, nullum tempus occurrit, etc. 
It was a case in which a pardon was very un- 
likely. There was but one way of placing the 
head of the Honorable Kiffyn Fulke Verney 
firmly in the vacant coronet, and of establishing 
him, Jos. Larkin, Esq., of the Lodge, in the val- 
uable management of the estates and affairs of 
that wealthy peerage. It was by dropping the 
extinguisher upon the flame of that solitary 
lamp, the Hon. Arthur Verney. Of course Jos. 
Larkin’s hand must not appear. He himself 
communicated with no official person. That 
was managed easily and adroitly. 

He wrote, too, from Brighton to Lord Verney 
at Malory, the day after his interview with that 
ex-nobleman, expressing “the most serious un- 
easiness, in consequence of having learned from 
a London legal acquaintance at Brighton, that 
a report prevailed in certain quarters of the 
city, that the person styling himself Mr. Ding- 
well had proved to be the Hon. Arthur Verney, 
and that the Verney peerage was, in conse- 
quence, once more on the shelf. “I treated 
this report slightly, in very serious alarm not- 
withstanding for your brother’s safety,” wrote 
Mr. Larkin, “ and your lordship will pardon my 
expressing my regret that you should have 
mentioned, until the Hon. Arthur Verney had 
secured an asylum outside England, the fact of 
his being still living, which has filled the town 
unfortunately with conjecture and speculation 
of a most startling nature. I was shocked to 
see him this morning on the public platform of 
the railway, where, very possibly, he was recog- 
nized. It is incredible how many years are 
needed to obliterate recollection by the hand 
of time. I quietly entreated him to conceal his 
face a little, a precaution which, I am happy to 
add, he adopted. I am quite clear that he 
should leave London as expeditiously and se- 
cretly as possible, for some sequestered spot in 
France, where he can, without danger, await 
your lordship’s decision as to plans for his ulti- 
mate safety. May I entreat your lordship’s in- 
stantaneous attention to this most urgent and 


174 


THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 


alarming subject. I shall be in town to-mor- 
row evening, w^here my usual address will reach 
me, and I shall, without a moment’s delay, ap- 
ply myself to carry out whatever your lordship’s 
instructions may direct.” 

‘‘Yes, he has an idea of my judgment — about 
it,” said Lord Verney when he had read this 
letter, “ and a feeling about the family — -very 
loyal — yes, he’s a very loyal person ; I shall 
turn it over, I will — I’ll write to him.” 

Mr. Dingwell, however, had been wakened 
by two officers with a warrant by which they 
were ordered to take his body and consign it to 
a jailer. Mr. Dingwell read it, and his in- 
stinct told him that Jos. Larkin was at the bot- 
tom of his misfortune, and his heart sank. 

“Very Avell, gentlemen,” said he, briskly, 
“it is not for me ; my name is Dingwell, and 
my solicitor is Mr. Jos. Larkin, and all will be 
right. I must get my clothes on, if you please.” 

And he sat up in the bed, and bit his lip, and 
raised his eyebrows, and shrugged his shoulders 
drearily. 

“ Poor linnet — ay, ay — she was not very wise, 
but the only one — I’ve been a great fool — let us 
try.” 

There came over his face a look of inexpress- 
ible fatigue and something like resignation — 
and he looked all at once ten years older. 

“ I’ll be with you. I’ll be with you, gentle- 
men,” he said very gently. 

There was a flask with some noyeau in it, rel- 
ics of last night’s merry-making, to which these 
gentlemen took the liberty of helping them- 
selves. 

When they looked again at their prisoner he 
W'as lying nearly on his face, in a profound sleep, 
his chin on his chest. 

“ Choice stuff — smell o’ nuts in it,” said Con- 
stable Ruddle, licking his lips. “ Git up, sir; 
ye can take a nap when you git there.” 

There was a little phial in the old man’s fin- 
gers ; the smell of kernels was^stronger about 
the pillow. “The old man of the mountains” 
was in a deep sleep, the deepest of all sleeps — 
death. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

CONCLUSION. 

And now all things with which, in these 
pages, we a:e concerned, are come to that point 
at which they are best settled in a very few 
words. 

The one point required to establish Sedley’s 
claim to the peerage — the validity of the mar- 
riage — had been supplied by old Arthur Verney, 
as w'e have seen, the night before his death. 

The late Lord Verney of unscrupulous mem- 
ory, Arthur’s father, had, it was believed, in- 
duced Captain Sedley, in whose charge the in- 
fant had been placed, to pretend its death, and 
send the child in reality to France, where it had 
been nursed and brought up as his. He was 
dependent for his means of existence upon his 


employment as manager of his estates, under 
Lord Verney ; and he dared not, it was thought, 
from some brief expressions in a troubled letter 
among the papers placed by old Mrs. Mervyn in 
Wynne Williams’s hands, notwithstanding many 
qualms of conscience, disobey Lord Verney. 
And he was quieted farther by the solemn as- 
surance that the question of validity of the pre- 
tended marriage had been thoroughly sifted, 
and that it was proved to have been a nullity. 

He carefully kept, however, such papers as 
were in his possession respecting the identity of 
the child, and added a short statement of his 
own. If that old Lord Verney had suspected 
the truth that the marriage was valid, as it aft- 
erward proved, he was the only member of his 
family who did so. The rest had believed hon- 
estly the story that it -svas fraudulent and illu- 
sory. The apparent proof of the child’s death 
had put an end to all interest in farther inves- 
tigating the question, and so the matter rested, 
until time and events brought all to light. 

The dream that made Malory beautiful in my 
eyes is over. The image of ’that young fair face 
— the beautiful lady of the chestnut hair and 
great hazel eyes haunts its dark woods less pal- 
pably, and the glowing shadow fades, year by 
year, away. 

In sunny Italy, where her mother was born, 
those eyes having looked their last on Cleve and 
on “ the boy,” and up, in clouded hope to heaven 
— were closed, and the slender bones repose. 
“ I think, Cleve, you’ll sometimes remember 
your poor Margaret. I know you’ll always be 
very kind to the little boy — o?ir darling, and if 
you marry again, Cleve, sAeV/ not be a trouble 
to you, as I have been ; and you said, you’ll 
sometimes think of me. You’ll forget all my 
jealousy, and temper, and folly, and you’ll say, 

‘ Ah, she loved me.’ ” 

And these last words return, though the lips 
that spoke them come no more ; and he is very 
kind to that handsome boy — frank, generous, 
and fiery like her, with the great hazel eyes and 
beautiful tints, and the fine and true affections. 
At times comes something in the smile, in the 
tone as he talks, in the laugh that thrills his 
heart with a strange yearning and agony. Vain 
remorse ! vain the yearnings ; for the last words 
are spoken and heard ; not one word ?/wre while 
the heavens remain, and mortals people the 
earth ! 

Sedley — Lord Verney we should style him — 
will never be a politician, but he has turned out a 
thoroughly useful business-like and genial coun- 
tiy gentleman. Agnes, now Lady Verney, is, 
I will not say how happy ; I only hope not too 
happy. 

Need I say that the cloud that lowered for a 
while over the house of Hazelden has quite 
melted into air, and that the sun never shone 
brighter on that sweet landscape? Miss Eth- 
erage is a great heiress now, for Sedley, as for 
sake of clearness I call him still, refused a dot 
with his wife, and that handsome inheritance 
will all belong to Charity, who is as emphatic, 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


175 


obstinate, and kind-hearted as ever. The ad- 
miral has never gone down the mill-road since 
his introduction to the Honorable KifFyn Fulke 
Verrey at the foot of the hill. He rolls in his 
chair safely along the level uplands, and amuses 
himself with occasional inspections of Ware 
through his telescope; and tells little Agnes, 
when he sees her, what she was doing on a cer- 
tain day, and asks who the party with the phae- 
ton and greys, who called on Thursday at two 
o’clock, were, and similar questions ; and likes 
to hear the news, and they say is growing more 
curious as years increase. He and Charity have 
revived their acquaintance with ecarte and piquet^ 
and play for an hour or so very snugly in the 
winter evenings. Miss Charity is a little cross 
when she loses, and won’t let old Etherage play 
more than his allotted number of games ; and 
locks up the cards ; and is growing wife-like 
with the admiral ; but is quite devoted to him, 
and will make him live, I think, six years long- 
er than any one else could. 

Sedley wrote a very kind letter to the Hon. 
Kiffyn Fulke Verney, to set his mind at ease 
about mesne rates^ and any other claims whatso- 
ever, that might arise against him, in conse- 
quence of his temporary tenure of the title and 
estates, and received from Vichy a very affront- 
ed reply, begging him to take whatever course 
he might be advised, as he distinctly objected to 
being placed under any kind of personal obli- 
gation, and trusted that he would not seek to 
place such a construction upon a compulsory 
respect for the equities of the situation, and the 
decencies enforced by public opinion ; and he 
declared his readiness to make any sacrifice to 
pay him whatever his strict legal rights entitled 
him to the moment he had made up his mind to 
exact them. 

The Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney is, of course, 
quite removed from his sphere of usefulness and 
distinction — parliamentary life — and spends his 
time upon the Continent, and is remarkably re- 
served and impertinent, and regarded with 
very general respect and hatred. 

Sedley has been very kind, for Cleve’s sake, 
to old Sir Booth Fanshawe, with whom he is 
the only person on earth who has an influence. 

He wrote to the baronet, who was then in 
Paris, disclosing the secret of Cleve’s marriage. 
The old man burst into one of his frenzies, and 
wrote forthwith a frantic letter direct to his 
mortal enemy, the Hon. Kiffyn Fulke Verney, 
railing at Cleve, railing at him^ and calling up- 
on him, in a tone of preposterous menace, to 
punish his nephew ! Had he been left to him- 
self, I dare say he would have made Cleve feel 
his resentment. But thus bullied he said — 
“Upon my life I’ll do no such thing. I’m in 
the habit of thinking before I take steps, about 
it — wdth Booth Fanshawe’s permission. I’ll act 
according to my own judgment, and I dare say 
the girl has got some money, and if it were not 
good for Cleve in some way, that old person 
would not bo so angry.” And so it ended for 
the present. 


The new Lord Verney went over expressly to 
see him, and in the same conversation, in which 
he arranged some law business in the friendliest 
way, and entirely to Sir Booth Fanshawe’s satis- 
faction, he discussed the question of Cleve’s 
marriage. At first the baronet was incensed ; 
but when the hurly-burly was done he came to 
see, with our friend Tom, whose peerage gave 
his opinion weight on the subject of marriages 
and family relations, that the alliance was not 
so bad — on the contrary, that it had some very 
strong points to recommend it. 

The Eev. Isaac Dixie has not got on in the 
Church, and is somehow no favorite at Ware. 
The Hon. Miss Caroline Oldys is still unmarried, 
and very bitter on the Verneys, uncle and neph- 
ew ; people don’t understand why, though the 
reader may. Perhaps she thinks that the Hon. 
Kiffyn Fulke Verney ought to have tried again, 
and was too ready to accept a first refusal. Her 
hatred of Cleve I need not explain. 

With respect to Mr. Larkin, I cite an old 
Dutch proverb, which says, “Those who swim 
deep and climb high seldom die in their beds.” 
In its fair figurative sense it applies satisfactorily 
to the case of that profound and aspiring gentle- 
man who, as some of my readers are aware, fell 
at last from a high round of the ladder of his 
ambition, and was drowned in the sea beneath. 
No — not drowned ; that were too painless, and 
implies extinction. He fell, rather, upon that 
black flooring of rock that rims the water, and 
was smashed, but not killed. 

It was, as they will remember, after his intro- 
duction to the management of the affairs of the 
Wylder, Brandon, and Lake families, and on the 
eve, to all appearance, of the splendid consum- 
mation of his subtle and audacious schemes, 
that in a moment the whole scaffolding of his 
villainy ga'v^ way, and he fell headlong — thence- 
forth, helpless, sprawling, backbroken, living on 
from year to year, and eating metaphoric dust, 
like the great old reptile who is as yet mangled 
but not killed. 

Happy fly the years at Ware. Many fiiir 
children have blessed the union of pretty Agnes 
Etherage and the kindly heir of the Verneys. 
Cleve does not come himself ; he goes little to 
any gay country houses. A kind of lassitude or 
melancholy is settling and deepening upon him. 
To one passage of his life he looks back with a 
quickly averted glance, and an unchanging hor- 
ror — the time when he was saved from a great 
crime, as it were, by the turning of a die. 
“Those three dreadful weeks,” he says within 
himself, “ when I was mad!'^ But his hand- 
some son is constantly at Ware, where he is be- 
loved by its master and mistress like one of their 
own children. One day Lord Verney ran across 
to Malory in his yacht, this boy with him. It 
was an accidental tke-a-tke^ and he talked to 
the boy a great deal of his “poor mamma,” as 
he sauntered through the sunny woods of Mal- 
ory; and he brought him to the refectory, and 
pointed out to him, from the window, the spot 
where he had seen her, with her trowel in her 


176 


THE TENANTS OF MALOEY. 


hand, as the morning sun threw the shadow of 
the spreading foliage over her, and he described 
her beauty to him ; and he walked down with 
him to Cardyllian, the yacht was appointed to 
meet them at the pier, and brought him into the 
church, to the pew where he was placed, and 
showed him the seat where she and Anne Shec- 
kleton sat on the Sunday when he saw her first, 
and looked for a while silently into that void 
shadow, for it is pleasant and yet sad to call up 


sometimes those old scenes and images that have 
made us feel, when we were younger ; and some- 
how good Lady Verney did not care to, hear her 
husband upon this theme. 

So for the present the story of the Yerneys of 
Malory is told. Years hence, when we shall not 
be here to read it, the same scenes and family 
may have a new story to tell ; for time, with his 
shuttle and the threads of hite, is ever weaving 
new romance. 


THE END 


GUY DEVEEELL 


CHAPTER I. 

SIR JEKYL MARLOWE AT THE PLOUGH INN. 

The pretty little posting station, known as 
the Plough Inn, on the Old London Road, 
where the Sterndale Road crosses it, was in 
a state of fuss and awe, at about five o’clock 
on a fine sharp October evening, for Sir 
Jekyl Marlowe, a man of many thousand 
acres, and M. P. for the county, was standing 
with his back to the fire, in the parlor, whose 
bow-window looks out on the ancient thor- 
oughfare I have mentioned, over the row of 
scarlet geraniums which beautify the window 
stone. 

“ Hollo !” cried the Baronet, as. the bell- 
rope came down in answer to an energetic 
but not angry pull, and he received Mrs. 
Jones, his hostess, who entered at the mo- 
ment, with the dismantled bell-handle still 
in his hand. “At my old tricks, you see. 
I’ve been doing you a mischief, hey? but 
we’ll set it right in the bill, you know. How 
devilish well you look ! wonderful girl, by 
Jove! Come in, my dear, and shut the 
door. Hot afraid of me. I want to talk of 
ducks and mutton-chops. I’ve had no lunch- 
eon, and I’m awfully hungry,” said the 
comely Baronet in a continued chuckle. 

The Baronet was, by that awful red-bound 
volume of dates, which is one of the melan- 
choly drawbacks of aristocracy, set down 
just then, and by all whom it might concern, 
ascertainable to be precisely forty-nine years 
and three months old ; but so well had he 
worn, and so cleverly was he got up, that he 
might have passed for little more than 
forty. 

He was smiling, with very white teeth, and 
a gay leer on pretty Mrs. Jones, an old friend 
with black eyes and tresses, and pink cheeks, 
who bore her five-and-thirty years as well al- 
most as he did his own burthen. The slant- 
ing autumnal sun became her, and she simp- 
ered and courtesied and blushed the best she 
could. 

“ Well, you pretty little devil, what can 
you do for me — hey ? You know we’re old 
friends — hey ? What have you got for a 
hungry fellow ? and don’t stand at the door 
there, hang it — come in, can’t you ? and let 
me hear what you say.” 


So Mrs. Jones, with a simpering bashful- 
ness, delivered her bill of fare ofi* book. 

The Baronet was a gallant English gentle- 
man, and came of a healthy race, though 
there was a “ beau ” and an archbishop in 
the family ; he could rough it good-humor- 
edly on beefsteak and port, and had an ac- 
commodating appetite as to hours. 

“ That wiil do very nicely, my dear, thank 
you. You’re just the same dear hospitable 
little rogue I remember you— how long is it, 
by Jove, since I stopped here that day, and 
the awful thunderstorm at night, don’t you 
recollect! and the whole house in such a 
devil of a row, egad !” And the Baronet 
chuckled and leered, with his hands in his 
pockets. 

“ Three years, by Jove, I think— eh ?” 

“ Four years in August last. Sir Jekyl,” 
she answered, with a little toss of her head 
arid a courtesy. 

“ Four years, my dear — four devils ! Is it 
possible ? why upon my life it has positively 
improved you.” And he tapped her cheek 
playfully with his finger. “ And what 
o’clock is it ?” he continued, looking at his 
watch, “ just five. Well, I suppose you’ll be 
ready in lialf-an-hour— eh, my dear V” 

“ &oner, if you wish. Sir Jekyl.” 

“ Ho, thank you, dear, that ^\dll do very 
nicely ; and stay,” he added, with a pluck at 
her pink ribbon, as she retreated : “•you’ve 
some devilish good port here, unless it’s all 
out — old Lord Hogwood’s stock — eh ?” 

“ More than two dozen left, Sir Jekyl ; 
would you please some?” 

“ You’ve hit it, you wicked little conjurer 
— a bottle ; and you must give me a few min- 
utes after dinner, and a cup of coffee, and 
tell me all the news — eh ?” 

The Baronet, standing on the threadbare 
hearthrug, looked waggishly, as it were, 
thi’ough the panels of the shut door, after 
the fiuttering cap of his pretty landlady. 
Then he turned about and reviewed himself 
in the sea-green mirror over the chimney- 
piece, adjusted his curls and whiskers with 
a touch or two of his fingers’ ends, and 
plucked a little at his ample silk necktie, 
and shook out his tresses, with his chin a 
little up, and a saucy simper. 

But a man tires even of that prospect ; and 


GUY DEYERELL. 


he turned on his heel, and whistled at 'the 
sinok3r mezzotint of George ifl. on the 
opposite wall. Then he turned his head, 
and looked out through the bow'-window, 
and his whistling stopped in the middle of 
a bar, at sight of a young man whom he 
espied, only a yard or'two before the covered 
porch of the little inn. 

This young gentleman was, it seemed, 
giving a parting direction to some one in 
the doorway. He was tall, slender, rather 
dark, and decidedly handsome. There were, 
indeed, in his air, face, and costume, that 
indescribable elegance and superiority 
which constitute a man “ distinguished look- 
ing.” 

When Sir Jekyl beheld this particularly 
handsome young man, it was with a disa- 
greeable shock, like the tap on a big drum, 
upon his diaphragm. If anyone had been 
there he would have witnessed an odd and 
grizzly change in the pleasant Baronet’s 
countenance. For a few seconds he did not 
move. Then he drew back a pace or two, 
and stood at the further side of the fire, with 
the mantelpiece partially between him and 
the young gentleman w^ho spoke his parting 
directions, all unconscious of the haggard 
stare which made Sir Jekyl look a great 
deal less young and good-natured than was 
his wont. 

This handsome young stranger, smiling, 
signalled with his cane, as it seemed, to a 
companion, who had preceded him, and ran 
in pursuit. 

For a time Sir Jek3i did not move a 
muscle, and then, with a sudden pound on 
the chimneypiece, and a great oath, he ex- 
claimed — 

“ I could not have believed It ! What the 
devil can it mean ?” 

Then the Baronet bethought him — “ What 
confounded stuff one does talk and think, 
sometimes ! Half the matter dropped out of 
my mind. Twenty years ago, by Jove, too. 
More than that, egad ! How^ could I be such 
an ass ?” 

And he countermarched, and twirled on 
his heel into his old place, with his back to 
the fire, and chuckled and asked again — 

‘‘ H(^w the plague could I be such a fool ?” 

And after some more of this sort of cate- 
chism he began to ruminate oddly once 
more, and, said he — 

“ It’s plaguy odd^ for all that.” 

And he walked to the window^ and, with 
his face close to the glass, tried in vain to see 
the stranger again. The bow-window did 
not command the road far enough to enable 
him to see any distance ; and he stuck his 
hat on his head, and marched by the bar, 
through the porch, and, standing upon the 
road itself, looked shrewdly in the same 
direction. 

But the road makes a bend about there, 
and between the hedgerows of that wooded 
country the vista was not far. 

With a cheerful air of carelessness. Sir 
Jekyl returned and tapped on the bar win- 
dow. 

“ I say, Mrs. Jones, who’s that good- 


looking j^oung fellow that went opt just 
now ?” 

The gentleman in the low crowned bat, 
sir, with the gold-headed cane, please ?” 

“ Yes, a tall young fellow, with large dark 
eyes, and brown hair.” 

“ That will be Mr. Strangers, Sir Jekyl.” 

“ Does he sleep here to-night ?” 

“Yes, sir, please,” 

“ And what’s his business ?” 

“ Oh, dear ! No business, Sir Jekyl, please. 
He’s a real gentleman, and no end of 
money.” 

“ I mean, how does he amuse himself?” 

“ A looking after prospects and old places, 
and such like, Sir Jekyl. Sometimes riding 
and sometimes a fiy. Every day some place 
or other.” 

“ Oh ! pencils and paint-boxes— eh ?” 

“ I ’aven’t seen none, sir. I can’t say how 
that will be.” 

“ Well, and what is he about ; where is he 
gone ; where is he now ?” demanded the 
Baronet. 

“ What way did Mr. Strangers go. Bill, • 
just now ?” the lady demanded of boots, who 
appeared at the moment. 

“ The Abbey, ma’am.” 

“ The Abbey, please. Sir Jekyl.” 

“ The Abbey — that’s Wail Abbe}' — eh ? 
How' far is it ?” 

“ How far will it be, Bill ?” 

“ ’Taint a mile all out, ma’am.” 

“ Not quite a mile. Sir Jekyl.” 

“ A good ruin — isn’t it ?” asked the Baronet. 

“ Well, they do say it’s mry much out of 
repair ; but I never saw it myself. Sir Jekyl.” 

“ Neither did I,” said Sir Jekyl. “ I say, 
my good fellow, you can point it out, I dare 
say, from the steps here ?” 

“ Ay, please. Sir Jekyl.” 

“ You’ll have dinner put back, Sir — please, 
Sir Jekyl ?” asked Mrs. Jones. 

“ Back or forward, any way, my dear 
child. Only I’ll have my walk first.” 

And kissing and waving the tips of his 
fingers, with a smile to Mrs. Jones, who 
courtesied and simpered, though her heart 
was perplexed with culinary solicitudes 
“ how to keep the water from getting into 
the trout, and prevent the ducks of over- 
roasting,” the worthy Baronet followed by 
Bill, stept through the porch, and on the 
ridge of the old highroad, his own heart 
being oddly disturbed with certain cares 
which had given him a long respite ; there 
he received Bill’s directions as to the route 
to the Abbey. 

It was a clear frosty evening. The red 
round sun by this time, near the horizon, 
looked as if a tall man on the summit of the 
western hill might have touched its edge 
with his finger. The Baronet looked on the 
declining luminary as he buttoned his loose 
coat across his throat, till his eyes w^ere 
almost dazzled, thinking all the time of 
nothing but that handsome young man ; 
and as he walked on briskly toward the 
Abbey, he saw little pale green suns dancing 
along the road and wherever else his eyes 
were turned. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


7 


“ ni see this fellow face to face, and talk 
a bit with him. I dare say if one w^ere near 
he’s not at all so like. It is devilish odd 
though ; twenty-five years and not a relation 
on earth— and dead— hang him ! Egad, its 
like the Wandering Jew, and the what do 
you call ’em, mtcB. Ay, here it is.” 

lie paused for a moment, looking at the 
pretty stile which led a little pathway across 
tlie fields to the wooded hollow by the river, 
where the ruin stands. Two old white 
stone, fluted piers, once a doorway, now 
tufted with grass, and stained and worn 
by time, and the stile built up between. 

“ I know, of course, there’s nothing in it; 
but it’s so odd — it is so demlisli odd. I’d like 
to know all about it,” said the Baronet, pick- 
ing the dust from the fluting wfith the point 
of his walking-cane. Where has he got, I 
w^onder, by this time ?” So he mounted the 
stile, and paused near the summit to obtain 
a commanding view. ^ 

“ Well, I suppose he’s got among the old 
walls and rubbish by this time. I’ll make 
him out ; he’ll break cover.” 

And he skipped dowm the stile on the 
other side, and whistled a little, cutting 
gaily in the air with his cane as he went. 

But for all he could do the same intensely 
uncomfortable curiosity pressed upon him as 
he advanced. The sun sank behind the dis- 
tant hills, leaving the heavens flooded with a 
discolored crimson, and the faint silver of 
the moon in the eastern sky glimmered 
coldly over the fading landscape, as he sud- 
denly emerged from the hedged pathway on 
the rich meadow level by the slow river’s 
brink, on which, surrounded by lofty timber, 
the ruined Abbey stands. 

The birds had come home. Their vesper 
song had sunk with the setting sun, and in 
the sad solitude of twilight the grey ruins 
rose dimly before him. 

“ A devilish good spot for a picnic !” said 
he, making an effort to recover his usual 
agreeable vein of thought and spirits. 

So he looked up and about him, and 
jauntily marched over the sward, and 
walked along the line of the grey walls until 
he found a doorway, and began his explora- 
tions. 

Through dark passages, up broken stairs, 
over grass-grown piles of rubbish, he peeped 
into all sorts of roofless chambers. Every- 
thing was silent and settling down into night. 
At last, by that narrow doorway, which in 
such buildings so oddly gives entrance here 
and there into vast apartments, he turned in- 
to that grand chamber, whose stone floor 
rests on the vaults beneath ; and there the 
Baronet paused for a moment with a little 
start, for at the far end, looking towards 
him, but a little upward, with the faint re- 
flected glow that entered through the tall 
row of windows, on the side of his face and 
figure, stood the handsome young man of 
wdiom he was in pursuit. 

The Baronet being himself only a step or 
two from the screw stairs, and still under 
the shadow of the overhanging arch in the 
corner, the stranger saw nothing of him 


and to announce his approach, though not 
much of musician, he hummed a bar or 
two briskly as he entered, and marched 
across and about as if thinking of nothing 
but architecture or the picturesque. 

“ Charming ruin this, sir,” exclaimed he, 
raising his hat, so soon as he had approached 
the stranger sufficiently near to make the 
address natural. “ Although I’m a resident 
of this part of the world, I’m ashamed to 
say I never saw it before.” 

The young man raised his hat too, and 
bowed with a ceremonious grace, which, as 
well as his accent, had something foreign 
in it. 

“ While I, though a stranger, have been 
unable to resist its fascinatioji, and have 
already visited it three times. Y'ou have 
reason to be proud of your county, sir, it is 
full of beauties.” 

The stranger’s sweet, but peculiar, voice 
thrilled the Baronet with a recollection as 
vivid and detested. In fact this well- 
seasoned man of the world was so much 
shocked that he answered only with a bow, 
and cleared his voice, and chuckled after his 
fashion, but all the time felt a chill creeping 
over his back. 

There was a broad bar of a foggy red 
light falling through the ivy-girt window, 
but the young man happened to stand at 
that moment in the shadow beside it, and 
when the Baronet’s quick glance, instead of 
detecting some reassuring distinction of fea- 
ture or expression, encountered only the am- 
biguous and obscure, he recoiled inwardly 
as from something abominable. 

“ Beautiful effect — beautiful sky ! ” ex- 
claimed Sir Jekyl, not knowing very well 
what he was saying, and waving his cane* 
upwards towards the fading tints of the sky. 

The stranger emerged from his shadow 
and stood beside him, and such light as 
there was fell full upon his features, and as 
the Baronet beheld he felt as if he were in 
a dream. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE BARONET VISITS WARDLOCK MANOR. 

In fact Sir Jekyl would have been puzzled 
to know exactly what to say next, so odd 
were his sensations, and his mind so pre- 
occupied with a chain of extremely uncom- 
fortable conjecture, had not the handsome 
young gentleman who stood beside him ‘at 
the gaping window with its melancholy 
folds of ivy, said — 

“ I have often tried to analyse the pecu- 
liar interest of ruins like these — the mixture 
of melancholy and curiosity. I have seen 
very many monasteries abroad — perhaps as 
old as this, even older — still peopled with 
their monks, with very little interest indeed, 
and no sympathy; and yet here I feel a 
yearning after the bygone age of English 
monasticism, an anxiety to learn all about 
their ways and doings, and a sort of rever- 
ence and sadness I can’t account for, unless 
it be an expression of that profound sym- 


8 


GUY DEVEKELL. 


pathy which mortals feel with every expres- 
sion of decay and dissolution.” 

The Baronet fancied that he saw a lurk- 
ing smile in the young man’s face, and 
recoiled from psychologic talk about mor- 
tality. 

“ I dare say you’re right, sir, but I am the 
worst metaph 3 'sician in the world.” He 
thought the 5 ^oung man smiled again. “ In 
^your liking for the picturesque, however, I 
quite go with you. Do you intend extend- 
ing your tour t6 Wales and Scotland ?” 

“ I can hardly call this little excursion a 
tour. The fact is, my curiosity is pretty 
much limited to this county ; there are old 
reasons which make me feel a very particu- 
lar interest in it,” said the young man, with 
a very pointed carelessness and a smile, 
which caused the Baronet inwardly to wince. 

“ I should be very happy,” said Sir Jekyl, 
“ if you would take Marlowe in your w^ay : 
there are some pictures there, as well as 
some views you might like to see. I am Sir 
Jekyl Marlowe, and own two or three places 
in this county, which are thought pretty— 
and, may I give you a card ? ” 

The snowy parallelogram was here pre- 
sented and accepted wntli a mutual bow. 
The stranger was smiling oddly as Sir Jekyl 
introduced himself, with an expression which 
he fancied he could read in spite of the 
dark, as implying “ rather old news you tell 
me.” 

“And — and— what was I going to say ? — 
oh ! — yes — if I can be of any use to you in 
procuring access to any house or place you 
wish to see, I shall be very happy. You are 
at present staying at my occasional quarters, 
the ‘ Plough.’ I’m afraid you’ll think me 
very impertinent and intrusive ; but I should 
like to be able to mention your name to some 
of my friends, who don’t usually allow stran- 
gers to see their places.” 

This was more like American than Eng- 
lish politeness ; but the Baronet was deter- 
mined to know all about the stranger, com- 
mencing with his name, and the laws of 
good breeding, though he knew them very 
well, were not likely to stand long in his 
way when he had made up his mind to ac- 
complish an object.” 

“ My name is Guy Strangways,” said the 
strangler. 

“ o— ho— it’s very odd !” exclaimed the 
Baronet, in a sharp snarl, quite unlike his 
previous talk. I think the distance between 
them was a little increased, and he was look- 
ing askance upon the young gentleman, who 
made him a very low foreign bow. 

There was a silence, and just then a deep 
metallic voic^ from below called, “ Guy — 
hollo !” 

“Excuse me— just a moment,” and the 
young m an was gone. The Baronet waited. 

“ He’ll be back,” muttered Sir Jekyl, “ in 
a minute.” 

But the Baronet was mistaken. He 
waited at that open window, whistling out 
upon the deepening twilight, till the edges 
of the ivy began to glitter in the moon- 
beams, and the bats to trace their zigzags 


in the air ; and at last he gave over expect- 
ing. 

He looked back into the gloomy void of 
that great chamber, and listened, and felt 
rather angry at his queer sensations. He 
had not turned about when the stranger 
withdrew, and did not know the process of 
his vanishing, and for the first time it struck 
him, “ who the plague could the fellow who 
called him be ?” 

On the whole he wished himself away, 
and he lighted a cigar for the sake of its vul- 
gar associations, and made his way out 
of the ruins, and swiftly through darkened 
fields toward the Old London Koad ; and 
was more comfortable than he cared to say, 
Tvhen he stepped through the porch into the 
open hall of the “ Plough,” and stopped be- 
fore the light at the bar, to ask his hostess 
once more, quite in his old way, whether 
Mr. Strangways had returned. 

“ Ho, not yet ; always uncertain ; his din- 
ner mostly overdone. ” 

“ Has he a friend with him ?” 

“ Yes, sir, sure. ” 

“And what is he like ? ” 

“ Older man. Sir Jekyl, a long way than 
young Mr. Guy Strangways ; some relation 
I do think. ” 

“ When do they leave 5 "ou ?” 

“ To-morrow evening, with a chaise and 
pair for Aukworth.” 

“ Aukworth ? why, that’s another of my 
properties! — ha, ha, ha, by Jovel Does he 
know the Abbe}^ here is mine ?” 

“ I rather think not. Sir Jekyl. Would you 
please to wfish dinner ?” 

“ To be sure, you dear little quiz, dinner 
by all means ; and let them get my horses 
to in half-an-hour ; and if Mr. Strangways 
should return before I go. I’d like to see 
him, and don’t fail to let me know — do jq 
see ?” 

Dinner came and went, but Mr. Strang- 
ways did not return, which rather vexed 
Sir Jekyl, who, however, left his card for 
that gentleman, together with an extremely 
polite note, which he wrote at the bar wfith 
his hat on, inviting him and his companion 
to Marlowe, where he would be at home any 
time for the next two months, and trusted 
they would give him a week before they left 
the country. 

It was now dark, and Sir Jekyl loitered 
under the lamplight of his chaise for a while, 
in the hope that Mr. Strangways would turn 
up. But he did not ; and the Baronet 
jumped into the vehicle, which was forthwith 
in motion. 

He sat in the corner, with one foot on the 
cushion, and lighted a cigar. His chuckling 
was all over, and his quizzing, for the pres- 
ent. Mrs. Jones had not a notion that he 
was in the least uneasy, or on any but hos- 
pitable thoughts intent. But any one who 
now looked in his face would have seen at a 
glance how suddenly it had become overcast 
with black care. 

“ Guy Strangways 1” he thought ; “ those 
two names, and his w^ouderful likeness 1 
Prowling about this county ! Why this 


GUY DEVERELL. 


9 


more than another ? He seemed to take a 
triumphant pleasure in telling me of his 
special fancy for this county. And his voice 
—a tenor they call it— I hate that sweet sort 

of voice. Those d singing fellows. I 

dare say he sings. They never do a bit of 
good. It’s very odd. It’s the same voice. 
I forgot that old silvery sound. The mme, 
by Jove ! I’ll come to the bottom of the 
whole thing. H me, I will !” 

Then the Baronet puffed away fast and 
earnest at his cigar, and then lighted 
another, and after that a third. They 
steadied him, I dare say, and helped to oil 
the mechanism of thought. But he had 
not recovered his wonted cheer of mind 
when the chaise drew up at a pair of time- 
worn fluted piers, with the gable of an old- 
flishioned dwelling-house overlooking the 
road at one side. An iron gate admitted 
to a court-j^ard, and the hall door of the 
house was opened by an old-flishioned foot- 
man, with some flour on the top of his 
head. 

Sir Jekyl jumped down. 

“Your mistress quite w'ell, hey? My 
daughter ready ?” inquired the Baronet. 
“ Where are they ? No, I’ll not go up, 
thank you ; I’ll stay here,” and he entered 
the parlor. “And, do you see, you just 
go up and ask your mistress if she wishes 
to see me.” 

By this time Sir Jekyl was poking up 
the fire and frowning down on the bars, 
with the flickering gale shooting over his 
lace. 

“ Can the old woman have anything to 
do with it ? Pooh ! no. I’d like to see 
her. But who knows what sort of a tem- 
l)er she’s in ?” 

As he thus ruminated, the domestic with 
the old-fashioned livery and floured head 
returned to say that his mistress would be 
happy to see him. 

The servant conducted him up a broad 
stair with a great oak banister, and opening 
a drawing-room door, announced — 

“ Sir Jekyl Marlowe.” 

He was instantly in the room, and tall, 
thin old lady, with a sad and stately mien, 
rose up to greet him. 

“ How is little mamma ? ” cried the 
Baronet, with his old chuckle. “An age 
since we met, hey ? How well you look ! ’’ 

The old lady gave her thin mittened 
hand to her son-in-law, and looked a grim 
and dubious sort of welcome upon him. 

“Yes, Jekyl, an age ; and only that 
Beatrix is here, I suppose another age 
would have passed without my seeing you. 
And an old woman at my years has not 
many ages between her and the grave.” 

The old lady spoke not playfully but 
sternly, like one who had suffered long and 
liorribly, and who associated her. sufferings 
with her visitor ; and in her oblique glance 
wa* something of deep-seated antipathy. 

“ Egad ! you’re younger than I, though 
you count more years. You live by clock 
and rule, and you show it. You’re as 
/resli as that bunch of flowers there ; while 


I am literally knocking mj^self to pieces — 
and I know it — by late hours, and all sorts 
of nonsense. So you must not be coming 
the old woman over me, you know, unless 
you want to frighten me. And how is 
Beatrix? How do, Beatrix? All ready, I 
see. Good child.” 

Beatrix at this moment was entering. 
She was tall and slightly formed, with large 
dark eyes, hair of soft shadowy black, and 
those tints of pure white and rich clear 
blush, scarlet lips, and pearly teeth, and 
long eyelashes, which are so beautiful in 
contrast and in harmony. She had the 
prettiest little white nose, and her face was 
formed in that decided oval which so 
heightens the charm of the features. She 
was not a tragic heroine. Her smile was 
girlish and natural — and the little ring of 
pearls between her lips laughed beautifully 
— and her dimples played on chin and 
cheek as she smiled. 

Her father kissed her, and looked at her 
with a look of gratification, as he might on 
a good picture that belonged to him ; and 
turning her smiling flice, with his finger 
and thumb upon her little dimpled chin, 
toward Lady Alice, he said — 

“ Pretty well, this girl, hey ?” 

“ I dare say, Jekyl, she’ll do very well ; 
she’s not formed yet, you know,” — was 
stately Lady Alice’s qualified assent. She 
was one of that school who are more afraid 
of spoiling people than desirous of pleasing 
them by admiration. “ She promises to 
be like her darling mother; and that is 
a melancholy satisfaction to me, and, of 
course, to you. You’ll have some tea, 
Jekyl ? ” 

The Baronet was standing, hat in hand, 
with his outside coat on, and his back to 
the fire, and a cashmere muffler loosely 
about his throat. 

“ Well, as it is here, I don’t mind.” 

“May I run down, grandmamma, and 
say good-bye to Ellen and old Mrs. Mason ? ” 

“ Surely — you mean, of course to the 
parlor ? You have them there.” 

“ And you must not be all night about it, 
Beatrix. We’ll be going in a few minutes. 
D’ye mind?” 

“ I’m quite ready, papa,” said she ; and 
as she glided from the room she stole a 
glance at her bright reflection in the 
mirror. 

“You are alw^ays in a hurry, Jekyl, to 
leave me when you chance to come" here. 
I should be sorry, however, to interfere 
with the pleasanter disposition of your 
time.” 

Now, little mother, you musn’t be 
huffed with me. I have a hundred and 
fifty things to look after at Marlowe when 
I get there.' I have not had a great deal 
of time, you know— first the session, then 
three months knocking about the world.” 

“ You never wrote to me since you left 
Paris,” said the old lady, grimly. 

“ Didn’t I ? That was very wrong ! But 
you knew those wmre my holidays, and I 
detest writing ; and you knew I could take 


10 


GUY- DEVERELL. 


care of myself ; and it is so mnch better to 
tell one’s adventures than to put them into 
letters, don’t you think ? ” 

“ If one could tell them all in five minutes,” 
replied the old lady, drily. 

“ Well, but you’ll come ,over to Marlowe 
—you really must— and I’ll tell you every- 
thing there— the truth, the whole truth, 
and as much more as you like.” 

This invitation was repeated every year, 
but, like Don Juan’s to the statue, was not 
expected to lead to a literal visit. 

“ You have haunted rooms there, Jek}^,” 
she said, with an unpleasant smile and a 
nod. “You have not kept house in Mar- 
lowe for ten years, I think. Why do you 
go there now,? ” 

“ Caprice, whim, what you will,” said the 
Baronet, combing out his favorite whisker 
with the tips of his figers, while he smiled 
on himself in the glass upon the chimney- 
piece, “ I wish you'd tell me, for I really 
don’t know, except that I’m tired of Warton 
and Dartbroke, as I am of all monotony. I 
like change, you know.” 

“ Yes ; 3^ou like change'^' said the lady, 
with a dignified sarcasm. 

“ I’m afraid it’s a true bill,” admitted Sir 
Jekyl, with a chuckle. So you’ll come to 
Marlowe and see us there — won’t you ? 

“No, Jekyl — certainly not^' said the old 
lady, with intense emphasis. 

A little pause ensued, during which the 
Baronet twiddled at his whisker, and contin- 
ued to smile amusedly at himself in the glass. 

“ I wonder you could think of asking me 
to Marlowe, considering all that has hap- 
pened there. I sometimes wonder at myself 
that I can endure to see you at all, Jekyl 
Marlowe ; and I don’t think, if it were not 
for that dear girl, who is so like her sainted 
mother, I should ever set eyes on you 
again.” 

“ I’m glad we have that link. You make 
me love Beatrix better,” he replied. He 
was now arranging the elaborate breast-pin 
with its tiny chain, which was at that date 
in vogue. 

“ And so you are going to keep house at 
Marlowe ? ” resumed the lady, stiffly, not 
heeding the sentiment of his little speech. 

“ Well, so I purpose.” 

“ I don’t like that house,” said the old lady, 
with a subdued fierceness. 

“ Sony it does not please you, little 
mother,” replied Sir Jekyl. 

“ You know I don’t like it,” she repeated. 

“ In that case you need not have told me,” 
he said. 

“ I choose to tell you. I’ll say so as often 
as I see you — as often as I like.” 

It was an odd conference — back to back 
— the old lady stiff and high — staring pale 
and grimly at the opposite wall. The 
Baronet looking with a quizzical smile on 
his handsome face in the mirror — now pluck- 
ing at a whisker — now poking at a curl with 
his finger-tip — and now in the same light 
way arranging the silken fall of his necktie. 

“ There’s nothing my dear little mamma 
can say. I’ll not listen to with pleasure.” 


“ There is much I might say j^ou could 
not listen to with pleasure.” The cold was 
growing more intense, and bitter in tone and 
emphasis, as she addressed the Italian pic- 
ture of Adonis and his two dogs hanging on 
the distant wall. 

“Well, with respect^ not with pleasure — 
no,” said he, and tapped his white upper 
teeth with the nail of his middle finger. 

“ Assuming, then, that you speak truth, it 
is high time, Jekyl Marlowe, that you should 
alter your courses — here’s your daughter, 
just come out. It is ridiculous, your affect- 
ing the vices of youth. Make up as 3^ou will 
— you’re past the middle age — you’re an 
elderly man now.” 

“ You can’t vex me that way, you dear 
old mamma,” he said with a chuckle, which 
looked for the first time a little vicious in 
the glass. “We baronets, you know, are all 
booked, and all the world can read our ages ; 
but you women, manage better — you and 
your two dear sisters, Winifred and Geor- 
giana.” 

“ They are dead," interrupted Lady Alice, 
with more asperity than pathos. 

“ Yes, I know, poor old souls — to be sure, 
peers’ daughters die like other people. I’m 
afraid.” 

“ And when they do, are mentioned, if not 
with sorrow, at least with decent respect, by 
persons, that is, who know how to behave 
themselves.” 

There was a slight quiver in Lady Alice’s 
-lofty tone that pleased Sir Jekyl, as you 
might have remarked had you looked over 
his shoulder into the glass. 

“ Well, jmu know, I was speaking not of 
deaths but births, and only going to say if 
you look in the peerage you’ll find all the 
men, poor devils, pinned to their birthdays, 
and the women left at large, to exercise 
their veracity on the point: but you need 
not care — you have not pretended to jmuth 
for the last ten years, I think.” 

“ You are excessively impertinent, sir.” 

“ I know it,” answered Sir Jekyl, with a 
jubilant chuckle. 

A very little more, the Baronet knew, and 
Lady Alice Redcliffe would have risen gre}^ 
and grim, and sailed out of the room. Their 
partings were often after this sort. 

But he did not wish matters to go quite 
that length at present. So he said, in a 
sprightly way, as if a sudden thought had 
struck him — 

“By Jove, I believe I am devilish imper- 
tinent, without knowing it though — and 
you have forgiven me so often, I’m sure you 
will once more, and I am really so much 
obliged for your kindness to Beatrix. I am, 
indeed.” 

So he took her hand, and kissed it. 


CHAPTER III. 

CONCERNING TWO REMARKABLE PERSONS 
WHO APPEARED IN WARDLOCK CHURCH. 

Lady Alice carried her thin Roman nose 
some degrees higher ; but she said ; 


GUY DEVERELL. 


11 


“ If I say anything disagreeable, it is not 
for the pleasure of giving you pnii-, Jekyl 
Marlowe ; but I understand that you mean 
to have old General Lennox and his artful 
wife to stay at your house, and if so, I think 
it an arrangement that had better be dis- 
pensed with. I don’t think her an eligible 
acquaintance for Beatrix, and you know 
very well she’s not — and it is not a respect- 
able or creditable kind of thing.” 

“ Now, what d d fool. I beg pardon 

—but who the plague has been filling your 
mind vvfith these ridiculous stories — my dear 
little mamma ? You know how ready I am 
to confess ; you might at least ; I tell you 
eveiy thing ; and I do assure you I nemr 
admired her. She’s good looking, I know ; 
but so are fifty pictures and statues I’ve seen, 
and don’t please me.” 

“ Then it’s true, the General and his wife 
are going on a visit to Marlowe V” insisted 
Lady Alice, drily. 

“ No, they are not. D me, I’m not 

thinking of the General and his wife, nor of 
any such d d trumpery. I’d give some- 

thing to know who the devil’s taking these 
cursed liberties with my name.” 

“ Pra 3 % Jekyl Marlowe, command your 
language. It can’t the least signify who 
tells me ; but you see I do sometimes get a 
letter.” 

“Yes, and a precious letter too. Such a 
pack of lies did any human being ever hear 
fired off in a sentence before ? I’m epris of 
Mrs. General Lennox. Thumper number 
one ! She’s a lady of— I beg pardon — easy 
virtue. Thumper number two ! and I invite 
her and her husband down to' Marlowe, to 
make love of course to her, and to fight the 
old General. Thumper number three !” 

And the Baronet chuckled over the three 
“ thumpers” merrily. 

“Don’t talk slang, if you please — gentle- 
men don’t, at least in addressing ladies.” 

“ Well, then, I won’t ; I’ll speak just as you 
like, only you must not blow me up any 
more ; for really there is no cause, and we 
here only two or three minutes together, you 
know ; and I want to tell you something, or 
rather to ask you — do you ever hear any- 
thing of those Deverells, you kuow ?” 

Lady Alice looked quite startled, and 
turned quickly half round in her chair with 
her eyes on Sir Jekyl’ s face. The Baronet’s 
smile subsided, and he looked with a dark 
curiosity in hers. A short but dismal silence 
followed. 

“ You’ve heard from them ?” 

“ No,” said the lady, with little change in 
the expression of her face. 

“ Well, of them ?” 

“ No,” she repeated ; “ but why do you 
ask ? It’s very strange !” 

“ What's strange ? Come, now, you hate 
S{)mething to say ; tell me what it is.” 

“ I wonder, Jekyl, you ask for them, in the 
first place.” 

“ Well — well, of course ; but what next ?” 
murmured the Baronet, eagerly ; “ why is it 
so strange ?’* 

“ Only because I’ye been thinking of them 


— a great deal — for the last few days ; and it 
seemed yery odd your asking ; and in fact 1 
fancy the same thing has happened to us 
both.” 

“Well, may be; but what is it?” de- 
manded the Baronet, with a sinister smile. 

“ I haye been startled ; most painfull}^ 
and powerfully affected ; I haye seen the 
most extraordinary resemblance to my beau- 
tiful, murdered Guy.” 

She rose and wept passionately, standing 
with her face buried in her handkerchief 

Sir Jekyl frowned with closed eyes and 
upturned face, waiting like a patient man 
bored to death, for the subsidence of the 
storm which he had conjured up. Yery pale, 
too was that couhtenance, and contracted for 
a few moments with intense annoyance. 

“ I saw the same fellow,” said the Baronet, 
in a subdued tone, so soon as there was a 
subsidence, “ this eyening ; he’s at that little 
inn on the Stern dale Road. Guy Strang- 
way s he calls himself; I talked with him 
for a few minutes; a gentlemanly young 
man ; and I don’t know what to make of it. 
So I thought I’d ask you whether yo^i could 
help me to guess ; and that’s all.” 

The old lady shook her head. 

“ And I don’t think you need employ quite 
such hard terms,” he said. 

“ I don’t want to speak of it at all,” said 
she; “but if I do I can’t say less; nor I 
won’t — no, neyer !” 

“ You see it’s yery odd, those two names,” 
said Sir Jekyl, not minding; “and as you 
say, the likeness so astonishing — I — I — what 
do you think of it ?” 

“ Of course it’s an accident,” said the old 
lady. 

“ I’m glad you think so,” said he, abruptly. 

“ Why, what could it l3e ? you don’t be- 
lieye in apparitions ?” she replied, with an 
odd sort of dryness. . 

“ I rather think not,” said he ; “I meant 
he left no yery near relation, and I fancied 
those Deyerell people might haye contrived 
some trick, or intended some personation, 
or something, and I thought that you, per 
haps, had heard something of their move 
ments.” 

“ Nothing — what could they have done, 
or why should they have sought to make 
any such impression ? I don’t understand it. 
It is very extraordinary. But the likeness 
in church amazed and shocked me, and made 
me ill.” 

“ In church, you say ?” repeated Sir Jekyl. 

“ Yes, in church,” and she told him in her 
own way, what I shall tell in mine, as fol- 
lows : — 

Last Sunday she was driven, in her accus- 
tomed state, with Beatrix, to Wardlock 
church. The church was hardly fiye hun- 
dred yards away, and the day bright and 
dry. But Lady Alice always arrived and 
departed in the coach, and sat in the Red‘ 
cliffe seat, in the centre of the gallery. She 
and Beatrix sat face to face at opposite 
sides of the pew. 

As Lady Alice looked with her cold and 
steady glance over the congregation in the 


12 


GUY DEYERELL. 


aisle, during tlie interval ol silence that 
precedes the commencement of the service, 
a tall and graceful young man, with an air 
of semi-foreign fashion, entered the church, 
accompanied hy an elderly gentleman, of 
whom she took comparatively little note. 

The young man and his friend were 
ushered into a seat confronting the gallery. 
Lady Alice gazed and gazed transfixed with 
astonishment and horror. The enamelled 
miniature on her bosom was like ; but there, 
in that clear, melancholy face, with its large 
eyes and wavy hair was a resurrection. In 
that animated sculpture were delicate trac- 
ings and touches of nature’s chisel, which 
the artist had failed to represent, which 
even memory had neglected to fix, but 
which all now returned with the startling 
sense of identity in a moment. 

She had put on her gold spectacles, as 
she always did on taking her seat, and 
opening her “ Morning Service,” bound in 
purple Russia, with its golden clasp and 
long ribbons fringed with the same precious 
metal, with the intent to mark the proper 
psalms and lessons at her haughty leisure. 
She therefore saw the moving image of her 
dead son before her, with an agonizing dis- 
tinctness that told like a blight of palsy on 
her face. 

She saw his elderly companion also dis- 
tinctly. A round-shouldered man, with his 
short caped cloak still on. A grave man, 
vrith a large, high, bald forehead, a heavy, 
hooked nose, and great hanging moustache 
and beard. A dead and ominous face 
enough, except for the piercing glance of 
his full eyes, under very thick brows, and 
just the one you would have chosen out of 
a thousand portraits, for a plotting higli- 
priesl or an old magician. 

This magus fixed his gaze on Lady 
Alice, not with an Ostentation of staring, 
but sternly from behind the dark embrasur(y 
of his brows; and leaning a little side- 
ways, whis]»ered something in the ear of his 
young companion, whose glance at the same 
moment was turned with a dark and fixed 
interest upon the old lad}^ 

It was a very determined stare on both 
sides, and of course ill-bred, but mellowed 
by distance. The congregation were other- 
wise like other country congregations, 
awaiting the offices of their pastor, decent, 
listless, V hile this great stare was going on, 
so little becoming the higher associations 
and solemn aspect of the place. It was, 
with all its conventional screening, a fierce, 
desperate scrutiny, cutting the dim air with 
a stea-dy congreve fire that crossed and 
glared un intermittent' by the ears of de- 
ceased gentlemen in ruffs and grimy doublets, 
at their posthumous devotions, and brazen 
knights praying on their backs, and under 
the eyes of all the gorgeous saints, with 
glories round their foreheads, in attitudes of 
benediction or meekness, who edified be- 
lievers from the eastern window. 

Lady Alice drew back in her pew. Bea- 
trix was in a young-lady reverie, and did 
not observe what was going on. There was 


nothing indeed to make it very conspicuous. 
Bat when she looked at Lady Alice, she was 
shocked at her appearance, and instantly 
crossed, and said — 

“ I am afraid you are ill, grandmamma ; 
shall we come away ?” 

The old lady made no answer, but got up 
and took the girl’s arm, and left tlie seat 
very quietly. She got down the gallery 
stairs, and halted at the old window on the 
landing, and sate there a little, ghastly and 
still mute. 

The cold air circulating upward from the 
porch revived her. 

“ I am better, child,” said she, faintly. 

“ Thank Heaven,” said the girl, whose 
terror at her state proved how intensely 
agitated the old lady must have been. 

Mrs. Wrattles, the sextonesss, emerging at 
that moment with repeated courtesies, and 
whispered condolence and inquiries. Lady 
Alice, with a stiff condescension, prayed 
her to call her woman. Mason, to her. 

So Lady Alice, leaning slenderly on 
Mason’s stout arm, insisted that Beatrix 
should return and sit out the service ; and 
she herself, for the first time within the 
memory of man, returned from Wardlock 
church on foot, instead of in her coach. 
Beatrix waited until the congregation had 
nearly disgorged itself and di^ersed, before 
making her solitary descent. 

When she came down, without a chaperon, 
at the close of the rector’s discourse, the 
floured footman in livery, with his gold- 
headed cane, stood as usual at the coach- 
door only to receive her, and convey the 
order to the coachman, “ home.” 

The churchyard gate, as is usual, I be- 
lieve, in old places of that kind, opens at 
the south side, and the road to Wardlock 
manor leads . along the churchyard wall and 
round the corner of it at a sharp angle just 
at the point where the clumsy old stone 
mausoleum or vault of the Deverell family 
overlooks the road, with its worn pilasters 
and beetle-browed cornice. 

How that 'was a Sunday of wonders. It. 
had witnessed Lady Alice’s pedestrian re- 
turn from church, an act of humiliation, 
almost of penance, such as tlie memory of 
Wardlock could furnish no parallel to; and 
now it was to see another portent, for her 
ladyship’s own gray horses, fat and tranquil 
beasts, who had pulled her to and from 
church for I know not how many years, 
under the ministration of the careful coach- 
man, with exemplary sedateness, on this 
abnormal Sabbath took fright at a musical 
performance of two boys, one playing the 
Jew’s harp and the other drumming tam- 
bourine-wise on his hat, and suadente diaholo 
and so forth, set off at a gallop, to the terror 
of all concerned, toward home. Making 
the sharp turn of the road, wdiere the tomb 
of the Deverells overhangs it from the 
churchyard, the near-gray came down, and*^ 
his off-neighbor reared and plunged fright- 
fully. 

The young lady did not scream, but very 
much terrified, she made voluble inquiries 


GUY DEVERELL. 


13 


of the air and hedges from the window, 
while the purple coachman pulled hard from 
the box, and spoke comforably to his horses, 
/md the footman, standing out of reach of 
danger, talked also in his own vein. 

Simultaneously with all this, as if emerg- 
ing from the old mausoleum, there sprang 
over the churchyard fence, exactly under 
its shadow, that young man who had ex- 
cited emotions so various in the Baronet and 
in Lady Alice, and seized the horse by the 
head with both hands, and so cooperated 
that in less than a minute the two horses 
were removed from the carriage, and he 
standing, hat in hand, before the window, 
to assure the young lady that all was quite 
safe now. 

So she descended, and the grave footman, 
with the Bible and Prayer-book, follow^ed 
her steps with his gold-headed rod of office, 
while the lithe and handsome youth, his hat 
still in air which stirred his rich curls, 
walked beside her with something of that 
romantic deference which in one so elegant 
and handsome has an inexpressible senti- 
ment of the tender in it. 

He walked to the door of Wardlock 
Manor, and I purposely omit all he said, 
because I doubt whether it would look as 
well in this unexceptionable type as it 
sounded from his lips in Beatrix Marlowe’s 
pretty ear. 

If the speaker succeed with his audience, 
what more can oratory do for him? Well ! 
he was gone. There remained in Beatrix’s 
ear a music ; in her fancy a heaven-like 
image — a combination of tint, and outline, 
and elegance, which made every room and 
scene without it lifeless, and every other 
object homely. These li'Jl.! untold impres- 
sions are of course liable lu hide and vanish 
pretty quickly in absence, and to be super- 
seded even sooner. Therefore it would be 
unwarranted to say that she was in love, 
although I can’t deny that she was haunted 
by that slightly foreign young gentleman. 

This latter portion of the adventure was 
not divulged by old Lady Alice, because 
Beatrix, I suppose, forgot to tell her, and 
she really knew nothing about it. All the 
rest, her own observation and experience, 
she related with a grim and candid parti- 
cularity. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE GREEN CHAIVIBER AT MARLOWE. 

So the Baronet, with a rather dreary 
chuckle, said : — 

“ I don’t think, to say the truth, there is 
anything in it. I really can’t see why the 
plague I should bore myself about it. You 
know your pew in the middle of the gallery, 
with that painted hatchment thing, you 
know , . . 

“ Respect the dead,” said Lady Alice, 
looking down with a dry severity on the 
table. 

“Well, yes; I mean, you know, it is so 
confoundedly conspicuous, I can’t wonder 


at the tw'O fellows, the old and j^oung, staring 
a bit at it, and, perhaps at you,, you know,” 
said Sir Jekyl, in his impertinent vein. 
“ But I agree with you they are no ghosts, 
and I really shan’t trouble my head about 
them any more. I wonder I was such a 
fool — hey ? But as you say, you know, it is 
unpleasant to be reminded of— of those 
things ; it can’t be helped now, though.” 

“ Xow, nor ever,” said Lady Alice, grimly. 

“Exactly; neither now, nor ever,” re- 
peated Sir Jekyl; “and we both know it 
can’t possibly be poor — I mean anyone con- 
cerned in that transaction ; so the likeness 
must be accidental, and therefore of no 
earthly significance—eh ?” 

Lady Alice, with elevated brows, fiddled 
in silence with some crumbs on the table 
with the tip of her thin finger. 

“ I suppose Beatrix is ready ; may I ring 
the bell ?” 

“ Oh ! here she is. Kow, bid grandmamma 
good-night,” said the Baronet. 

So slim and pretty Beatrix, in her cloak, 
stooped down and placed her arms about 
the neck of the old lady, over whose fixee 
came a faint fiush of tender sunset, and her 
old grey eyes looked very kindly on the 
beautiful young face that stooped over her, 
as she said, in a tone that, however, xvas 
stately — 

“ Good-bye, my dear child ; you are warm 
enough — you are certain ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, dear grandmamma — my cloak, 
and this Cashmere thing.” 

“ Well, darling, good-night. You’ll not 
forget to write — yoivll not fail ? Good-night, 
Beatrix, dear — good-bye.” 

“ Good-night,” said the Baronet, taking tlie 
tips of her cold fingers together, and address- 
ing himself to kiss her cheek, but she drew 
back in one of her wdiims, and said stiffly, 
“ There, not to-night. Good-bye, Jekyl.” 

“ Well,” chuckled he, after his wont, 
“ another time ; but mind, you’re to come to 
Marlow^e.” 

He did not care to listen to what she 
replied, but he called from the stairs, as he 
ran down after his daughter-- 

“ Now, mind, I won’t let you off this time ; 
you really must come. Good-night, au re- 
voir — good-night. ” 

I really think that exemplary old lady 
hated the Baronet, who called her “ little 
mamma,” and invited her every year, witli- 
out meaning it, most good-naturedly, to join 
his party under the ancestral roof-tree. He 
took a perverse sort of pleasure in these 
affectionate interviews, in fretting her not 
very placid temper — in patting her as it 
were, wherever there was a raw, and in 
fondling her against the grain ; so that his 
caresses were cruel, and their harmony, 
such as it was, amounted to no more than 
a fiimsy deference to the scandalous world. 

But Sir Jekyl knew that there was nothing 
in this quarter to be gained in love by a dif 
ferent tactique ; there was a dreadful remem- 
brance, which no poor lady has ostrich power 
to digest, in the way ; it lay there, hard, cold, 
and irreducible ; and the morbid sensation it 


14 


GUY DEVERELL. 


produced was hatred. He knew that “ little 
mamma,” humanly speaking, ought to hate 
him. His mother indeed she was not ; but 
only the step-mother of his wife. Mother-in- 
law is not always a very sweet relation, but 
with the prefix “ step ” the chances are, per- 
haps, worse. 

There. was, however, as you will by-and- 
by see, a terrible accident, or something, 
always remembered, gliding in and out of 
Wardlock Manor like the Baronet’s double, 
walking in behind him when he visited her, 
like his evil genius, and when they met affec- 
tionately, standing by his shoulder, black 
and scowling, with clenched fist. 

Now pretty Beatrix sat in the right corner 
of the chariot, and Sir Jekyl, her father, in 
the left. The lamps were lighted, and 
though there was moonlight, for they had a 
long stretch of road always dark, because 
densely embowered in the forest of Penlake. 
Tier over tier, file behind file, nodding to- 
gether, the great trees bent over like plumed 
warriors, and made a solemn shadow always 
between their ranks. 

Marlowe was quite new to Beatrix ; but 
still too distant, twelve miles away, to tempt 
her to look out and make observations as she 
would on a nearer approach. 

“ You don’t object to my smokiqg a cigar, 
Beatrix ? The smoke goes out of the win- 
dow, you know,” said the Baronet, after they 
had driven about a mile in silence. 

What young lady so appealed to by a 
parent, ever did object? The fact is. Sir 
Jekyl did not give himself the trouble to 
listen to her answer, but was manifestly 
thinking of something quite different, as he 
lighted his match. 

"'When he threw his last stump out of the 
window they were driving through Penlake 
Forest, and the lamplight gleamed on broken 
rows of wrinkled trunks and ivy. 

“ I suppose she told you all about it ?” 
said he, suddenly pursuing his own train of 
thought. 

“ Who ?” inquired Beatrix. 

“ I never was a particular favorite of hers, 
you know — grandmamma’s, I mean. She 
does not love me, poor old woman ! And 
she has a knack of making herself precious 
disagreeable, in which I try to imitate her, 
for peace’ sake, you know ; for, by George, 
if I was not uncivil now and then, we would 
never get on at all.” 

Sir Jekyl chuckled after his wont, as it 
were, between the bars of this recitative, and 
he asked*— 

“ What were the particulars— the adven- 
ture on Sunday — that young fellow, you 
know ?” 

Miss Beatrix had heard no such interroga- 
tory from her grandmamma, whose observa- 
tions in the church-aisle were quite as un- 
known to her ; and thus far the question of 
Sir Jekyl was a shock. 

“Did not grandmamma tell you about it ?” 
he pursued. 

“ About what, papa ?” asked Beatrix, who 
was glad that it was dark. 

“ About her illness — a young fellow in a 


pew down in the aisle staring at her. By 
Jove! one would have fancied that sort of 
thing pretty well over. Tell me all about 
it.” 

Tlie fact was that this w s the first she had 
heard of it. 

“ Grandmamma told me nothing of it,” 
said she. 

“ And did not you see what occurred ? 
Did not you see him staring ?’^ asked he. 

Beatrix truly denied. 

“ You young ladies are always thinking 
of yourselves. So you saw nothing, and 
have nothing to tell? That will do,” said 
Sir Jekyl, drily ; and silence returned. 

Beatrix was relieved on discovering that 
her little adventure was unsuspected. "'Very 
little was there in it, and nothing to reflect 
blame upon her. From her exaggeration 
of its importance, and her quailing as she 
fixncied her father was approaching it, I con- 
clude that the young gentleman had inter- 
ested her a little. 

And now, as Sir Jekyl in one corner of 
the rolling chariot brooded in the dark over 
his disappointed conjectures, so did pretty 
Beatrix in the other speculate on the sen- 
tences which had just fallen from his lips, 
and longed to inquire some further particu- 
lars, but somehow dared not. 

Could that tall and handsome young man, 
who had come to her rescue so unaccount- 
ably — the gentleman with those large, soft, 
dark eyes, which properly belong to heroes 
— have been the individual whose gaze had 
so mysteriously affected her grandmamma ? 
What could the associations have been that 
were painful enough so to overcome that 
grim, white woman? Was he a relation? 
Was he an outcast member of that proud 
family ? Or, was he that heir-at-law, or em- 
bodied Nemesis, that the yawning sea or 
grave will sometimes yield to plague the 
guilty or the usurper ? 

For all or any of these parts he seemed 
too young. Yet Beatrix fancied instinc- 
tively that he could be no other than the 
basilisk who had exercised so strange a spell 
over her grim, but withal kind old kinswo- 
man. 

Was there not, she thought, something 
peculiar in the look he threw across the 
windows of old stone-fronted Wardlock 
manor — reserved, curious, half-smilbig — 
as if he looked on an object which he had 
often heard described, and had somehow, » 
from personal associations or otherwise, 
an interest in? It was but a momentary 
glance just as he took his leave ; but there 
was, she thought, that odd character in it. 

' By this time the lamps were flashing on 
the village windows and shop-fronts ; and 
at the end of the old gabled street, under a 
canopy of dark trees, stood the great iron 
gate of Marlowe. 

Sir Jekyl rubbed the glass and looked out 
when they halted at the gate. The struc- 
tures of his fancy had amused him, rather 
fearfully indeed, and he was surprised to find 
that they were entering the grounds of Mar- 
lowe so soon. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


15 


He did not mind looking out, or speaking to 
the old gamekeeper, who pulled open the 
great barriers, but lay back in his corner sul- 
lenly, in the attitude of a gentleman taking a 
nap. 

Beatrix, however, looked out inquisi- 
tively, and saw by the misty moonlight a 
broad level studded with majestic timber — 
singly, in clumps, and here and there in 
solemn masses; and soon rose the broad- 
fronted gabled house before them, with its 
steep roofs and its hospitable clumps of 
twisted chimneys showing black against the 
dim sky. 

Miss Marlowe’s maid, to whom the scene 
was quite as new as to her mistress, descended 
from the back seat, in cloaks and mufflers, 
and stood by the hall-door steps, that shone 
white in the moonlight, before their sum- 
mons had been answered. 

Committing his daughter to her care, the 
Baronet — who was of a bustling tempera- 
ment, and never drank tea except from 
motives of gallantry — called for Mrs. Gwynn, 
the housekeeper, who presently appeared. 

She was an odd-looking woman — some 
years turned of fifty, thin, with a longish 
fiice and fine, white, glazed skin. There 
was something queer about her eyes ; you 
soon discovered it to arise from their light 
color and something that did not quite 
match in their pupils. 

On entering the hall, where the Baronet 
had lighted a candle, having thrown his hat 
on the table, and merely loosed his muffler 
and one or two buttons of his outside coat, 
she smiled a chill gleam of welcome with 
her pale lips, and dropped two sharp little 
courtesies. 

Well, old Donica, and how do ye do? ” 
said the Baronet, smiling, with a hand on 
each thin grey silk shoulder. “ Long time 
since I saw you. But, egad ! you grow 
younger and younger, you pretty old 
rogue and he gave her pale, thin cheek a 
playing tap with his fingers. 

“ Pretty well, please. Sir Jekyl, thank ye,” 
she replied, receding a little with dry dig- 
nity. “ Very welcome, sir, to Marlowe. 
Miss Beatrix looks very well, I am happy 
to see ; and you, sir, also.” 

“ And you’re glad to see us, I know ?” 

“ Certainly, sir, glad to see you,” said 
Mrs. Gwynn, with another short courtesy. 

“ The servants not all come ? No, nor 
Ridley with tJie plate. He’ll arrive to- 
morrow ; and — and we shall have the house 
full in little more than a week. Let us go 
up and look at the rooms; I forget them 
almost, by Jove — I really do — it’s so long 
since. Light you another, and we’ll do 
very well.” 

“ You’ll see them better by daylight, sir. 
I kept everything well aired and clean. The 
house looks wonderful — it do,” replied Mrs. 
Gwynn, accompanying the Baronet up the 
broad oak stairs. 

“ If it looks as fresh as you, Donica, it’s a 
miracle of a house — egad ! you’re a wonder. 
How you skip by my side, with your little 
taper, like a sylph in a ballet, egad ! ” 


“You wear pretty well yourself. Sir 
Jekyl,” drily remarked the white-faced sylph, 
who had a sharp perpendicular line between 
her eyebrows, indicative of temper. 

“ So they tell me, by Jove. We’re pretty 
well on though, Donnie— eh? Everyone 
knows my age— printed, you know, in the! 
red book. You’ve the advantage of me 
there — eh, Don ? ” ' 

“I’m just fifty-six, sir, and I don’t care ifi 
all the world knewd it.” ^ 

“ All the world’s curious, I dare say, on 
the point; but I shan’t tell them, old 
Gwynn,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ Curious or no, sir, it’s just the truth, 
and I don’t care to hide it. Past that folly 
now, sir, and I don’t care if I wor seventy, 
and a steppin’ like a ” 

“ A sylph,” supplied he. 

“ Yes — a sylph — into my grave. It’s a 
bad world, and them that’s suffered in it 
soon tires on it, sir.” 

^^•Tou have not had a great deal to trouble 
you. Neither chick, nor child, nor husband, 
egad ! So here we are.” 

They were now standing on the gallery, 
at the head of the great staircase. 

“ These are the rooms j^our letter says are 
not furnished— eh ? Let us come to the front 
gallery.” 

So, first walking down the gallery in which 
they were, to the right, and then entering a 
passage by a turn on the left, they reached 
the front gallery which runs parallel to that 
at the head of the stairs. 

“ Where have you put Beatrix ?” 

“ She wished the room next mine, please, 
sir, upstairs,” answered the housekeeper. 

“ Near the front — eh ?” 

“The left side, please, sir, as you look 
from the front,” replied she. 

From the front?” he repeated. 

“ From the front,” she reiterated. 

“ Over there, then ?” he said, pointing up- 
ward to the left. 

“ That will be about it, sir,” she answered. 

“ How many rooms have we here in a 
row?” he aske<l, facing down the gallery, 
with its file of doors on each side. 

“ Four bed-rooms and three dressing-rooms 
at each side. 

“ Ay, well now. I’ll tell you who’s coming, 
and how, to dispose of them.” 

So Sir Jekyl quartered his friends, as he 
listed, and then said he — 

“And the large room at the other end, 
here to the right — come along.” 

And Sir Jekyl marched briskly in the 
direction indicated. 

“Please, sir,” said the sim, pale house- 
keeper, with the odd leer in her eye, over- 
taking him quietly. 

“ Ay, here it is,” said he not minding her, 
and pushing open the dooi- of a dressing- 
room at the end of the gallery. “ Inside tliis, 

I remember.” 

“ But that’s the green ( ham.ber, sir,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Gwynn, gliding beside him as he 
traversed the floor. 

‘ The room we call Sir Harry’s room, I 
know — capital ro(nn — eh ?” 


16 


GUY DEVERELL. 


I don’t suppose,” began tlie pale lady, 
with a sinister sharpness. 

“ Well ?” he demanded, looking down in 
her face a little grimly. 

“ It’s the green chamber, sir,” she said, 
with a hard emphasis. 

“ You said so before, eh ?” he replied. 

“ And I did not suppose, sir, you’d think 
of putting any one there,” she continued. 

“ Then you’re just as green as the cham- 
ber,” said S r Jekyl, with a chuckle. 

And he entered the room, holding the 
candle high in air, and looking about him a 
little curiously, the light tread and sharp 
pallid face of Donica Gwynn following him. 


CHAPTER V. 

BiR JEKYL BETHINKS HIM OF PELTER AND 
CROWE. 

The Baronet held his candle high in air, 
as I have said, as he gazed round him inqui- 
sitively. The thin housekeeper, with her 
pale lips closed, and her odd eyes dropped 
slantingly toward the floor, at the corner of 
the room, held hers demurely in her right 
finger and thumb, her arms being crossed. 

The room was large, and the light insuffi- 
cient. Stiff you could not help seeing at a 
glance that it must be, in daylight, a tolera- 
bly cheerful one. It was roomy and airy, 
with a great bow-window looking to the 
front of the building, of which it occupied 
the extreme left, reaching about ten feet 
from the level of the more ancient frontage 
of the house. The walls were covered with 
stamped leather, chiefly green and gold, and 
the whole air of the room, even in its unar- 
ranged state, though somewhat quaint and 
faded, was wonderfully gay and cozy. 

“ This is the green chamber, sir,” she re- 
peated, with her brows raised and her eyes 
still lowered askance, and some queer wrink- 
les on her forehead, as she nodded a sharp 
bitter emphasis. 

“ To be sure it is, damme ! — why not ?” he 
said, testily, and then burst into a short 
laugh. 

“ You’re not a going, I suppose, Sir Jekyl, 
to put any one into it V” said she. 

“ I don’t see, for the life of me, why I 
should not — eh ? — a devilish comfortable 
room.” 

“ Hem ! I can’t but suppose you are a jok- 
ing me. Sir Jekyl,” persisted the gray silk 
phantom. 

“ Egad ! you forget how old we’re grow- 
ing ; why the plague should I quiz you ! I 
want the room for old General Lennox, that’s 
all — though I’m not bound to tell you for 
whom I want it-— am I ?” 

“ There’s a. plenty o’ rooms without this 
one. Sir Jekyl,” persevered the lady, sternly. 

‘•Plenty, of course; but none so good,” 
said he, carelessly. 

“ No one ever had luck that slept in it,” 
answered the oracle, lifting her odd eyes and 
fixing them on Sir Jekvl. 


“ I 'don’t put them here for luck. Wc 
want to make them comfortable,” answered 
Sir Jekyl, poking at the furniture as he 
spoke. 

“ You know what w^as your father’s wish 
about it, sir ?” she insisted. 

“ My father’s wish— egad, he did not leave 
many of his wishes unsatisfied — eh?” he 
answered, with another chuckle. 

“ And your poor lady’s wish,” she said, a 
good deal more sharply. 

“ I don’t know why the devil I’m talking 
to you, old Gwynn,” said the baronet, turning 
a little fiercely about. 

“ Dying wishes,” emphasised she. 

“ It is time. Heaven knows, all that stuff 
should stop. You slept in it yourself, in my 
father’s time. I remember you, here, Donica, 
and I don’t think that I ever heard that you 
saw a ghost — did I ?” he said, with a sarcastic 
chuckle. 

She darted a ghastly look to the far end of 
the chamber, and then, with a strange, half- 
frozen fury, she said — 

“ I wish you good-night. Sir Jekyl,” and 
glided like a shadow out of the room. 

“ Saucy as ever, by Jupiter,” he ejaculated, 
following her with his glance, and trying to 
smile ; and as the door shut, he looked again 
dowm the long apartment as she had just 
done, raising the candle again. 

The light was not improved of course by 
the disappearance of Mrs, Gwynn’s candle, 
and the end of the room was dim and unsat- 
isfactory. The great four-poster, with dark 
curtains, and a plume at each corner, threw a 
vague shadow on the back wall and up to 
the ceiling, as he moved his candle, which at 
the distance gave him an uncomfortable sen- 
sation, and he stood fora few seconds sternly 
there, and then turned on his heel and quit- 
ted the room, saying aloud, as he did so — 

“ What a d — d fool that old woman is — al- 
•ways was P' 

If there was a ghost there, the Baronet 
plainly did not wish it to make its exit from 
the green chamber by the door, for he locked 
it on the outside, and put the key in his 
pocket. Then, crossing the dressing-room I 
have mentioned, he entered the passage 
which crosses the gallery in which he and 
Mrs. Gwynn, a few minutes before, had 
planned their dispositions. The dressing- 
room door is placed close to the window 
which opens at the end of the corridor in the 
front of the house. Standing with his back 
to this, he looked down the long passage, 
and smiled. 

For a man so little given to the melo-dra- 
matic, it was a very well expressed smile of 
mystery— the smile of a man who knows 
something which others don’t suspect, and 
wmuld be surprised to learn. 

It was the Baronet’s fancy, as it had been 
his father’s and his grandfather’s before him, 
to occupy very remote quarters in this old 
house. Solitary birds, their roost was alone. 

Candle in hand, Sir Jekyl descended the 
stairs, marched down the long gaunt passage, 
which strikes rearward so inflexibly, and at 
last reaches the foot of a back staircase, after 


GUY DEVERELL. 


17 


a marcli of a hundred and forty feet, which 
I have measured. 

At top of this was a door at his left, which 
he opened, and found himself in his own bed- 
room. 

You would have said on looking about you 
that it was the bed-room of an old campaig- 
ner or of a natty gamekeeper — a fellow who 
rather liked roughing it, and had formed 
tastes in the matter like the great Duke of 
Wellington. The furniture was slight and 
plain, and looked like unvarnished deal ; a 
French bed, narrow, with chintz curtains, 
and a plain white coverlet, like what one 
might expect in a barrack, dormitory or an 
hospital ; a little strip of carpet lying by the 
bed, and a small square of Turkey carpet un- 
der the table by the fire, hardly broke the 
shining uniformity ox the dark oak floor ; a 
pair of sporting prints decorated the sides of 
the chimney-piece, and an oil -portrait of a 
grey hunter hung in the middle. There were 
fishing-rods and gun-cases, I dare say the 
keys were lost of many, they looked so old 
and dingy. 

The Baronet’s luggage, relieved of its black 
japanned casings, lay on the floor, with his 
hat-case and travelling-desk. A pleasant fire 
burnt in the grate, and a curious abundance 
of wax-lights, without which Sir Jeykl, such 
was his peculiarity, could not exist, enlivened 
the chamber. 

As he made his toilet at his homely little 
dressing-table, he bethought him suddenly, 
and rang the bell in his shirt-sleeves. 

“ My letters.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

And up came a salver well laden with let- 
ters, pamphlets, and newspapers, of all shapes 
and sizes. 

“ And tell Miss Beatrix I shan’t have any 
tea, and get some brandy from Mrs. Gwynn, 
and cold water and a tumbler, and let them 
leave me alone — d’ye see? — and give me 
that.” 

It was a dressing-gown which Tomlinson’s 
care Itgd already liberated from its valise, and 
expanded before the fire. 

The Baronet’s tastes, as we might see, were 
simple. He could dine on a bit of roast mut- 
ton, and a few glasses of sherry. But his 
mutton was eight years old, and came all the 
way from Dartbroke, and his sherry cost 
more than other men’s Madeira, and he now 
lighted one of those priceless cigars, which so 
many fellows envied, and inhaled the disem- 
bodied aroma of a tobacco which, perhaps, 
Jove smokes in his easy chair at Olympus, 
but which I have never smelt on earth, ex- 
cept when Sir J ekyl dispensed the inestima- 
ble treasures of his cigar-case. 

How, the Baronet stood over his table, 
with a weed between his lips, tall in his 
flowered silk dressing-gown, his open hands 
shoving apart the pile of letters, as a conjur- 
er at an exhibition spreads his pack of cards. 

“ Ha ! poor little thing !” he murmured, 
with a sly simper, in a petting tone, as he 
plucked an envelope, addressed in a lady’s 
hand, between two fingers, caressingly, from 
the miscellaneous assortment. 

2 


He looked at it, but reserved it as a Ion- 
houche in his waistcoat pocket, and pursued 
his examination. 

There were several from invited guests, 
who were either coming or not, with the cus- 
tomary expressions, and were tossed togeth- 
er in a little isolated litter for conference 
with Mrs. Gwynn in the morning. 

“ Not a line from Pelter and Crowe ! the 
d — d fellows don’t waste their ink upon me, 
except when they furnish their costs. It’s a 
farce paying fellows to look after one’s busi- 
ness— no one ever does it but yourself. If 
those fellows were worth their bread and 
butter, they’d have known all about this 
thing, whatever it is, and I’d have had it all 
here^ d it, to-night.” 

Sir Jekyl, it must be confessed, was not 
quite consistent about this affair of the mys- 
terious young gentleman ; for, as we have 
seen, he himself had a dozen times protested 
against the possibility of there being any- 
thing in it, and now he was seriously censur- 
ing ins respectable London attorneys for not 
furnishing him with the solid contents of this 
“ wind-bag.” 

But it was only his talk that was contra- 
dictory. Almost from the moment of his 
first seeing that young gentleman, on the 
open way under the sign of the “ Plough,” 
there lowered a fantastic and cyclopean pic- 
ture, drawn in smoke or vapor, volcanic and 
thunderous, all over his horizon, like those 
prophetic and retrospective pageants with 
which Doree loves to paint his mystic skies. 
It was wonderful, and presaged unknown 
evil ; and only cowed him the more that it 
baflied analysis and seemed to mock at reason. 

“ Pretty fellows to keep a look-cut ! It’s 
well I can do it for myself— who knows 
where we’re driving to, or what’s coming ? 
Signs enough — whatever they mean — he 
that runs may read, egad 1 Not that there’s . 
anything in it necessarily. But it’s not about 
drawing and ruins and that stuff — those fel- 
lows have come down here. Bosh ! looking 
after my property. I’d take my oath they 
are advised by some lawyer ; and if Pelter 
and Crowe were sharp, they’d know by 
whom, and all about it, by Jove !” 

Sir Jekyl jerked the stump of his cigar 
over his shoulder into the grate as he mut- 
tered this, looking surlily down on the un- 
profitable papers that strewed the table. 

He stood thinking, with his back to the 
fire, and looking rather cross and perplexed, 
and so he sat down and wrote a short letter. 
It was to Pelter and ’Crowe, but he began, as 
he did not care which got it, in his usual 
way — : 

“ My deah Sir, — I have reason to suspect 
that those ill-disposed people, who have often 
threatened annoyance, are at last seriously 
intent on mischief. You will be good 
enough, therefore, immediately to set on foot 
inquiries, here and at the other side of the 
water, respecting the movements of the 
D family, who, I fancy, are at the bot- 

tom of an absurd, thougji possibly trouble- 
some demonstration. I don’t fear them, of 


18 


GUY DEYERELL. 


course. But I think you will find that some 
members of that family are at present in this 
country, and disposed to be troublesome. 
You will see, therefore, the urgency of the 
affair, and will better know than I where 
and how to prosecute the necessary inquiries. 
I do not, of course, apprehend the least 
danger from their machinations ; but you 
have always thought annoyance possible ; and 
if any be in store for me, I should rather not 
have to charge it upon our supineness. You 
will therefore, exert your vigilance and ac- 
tivity on my behalf, and be so good as to let 
me know, at the earliest possible day — 
which, I think, need not be later than Wed- 
nesday next — the result of your inquiries 
through the old channels. I am a little dis- 
appointed, in fact, at not having heard from 
you before now on this subject. 

“ Yours, my dear sir, very sincerely, 

“ Jekyl M. Marlow^e.” 

Sir Jekyl never swore on paper, and, as a 
rule, commanded his temper very creditably 
in that vehicle. But all people who had 
dealings with him knew very well that the 
rich Baronet was not to be trifled with. So 
understanding that it was strong enough, he 
sealed it up for the post-office in the morn- 
ing, and dropped it into the post-bag, and 
with it the unpleasant subject for the present. 

And now, a little brandy and Avater, and 
the envelope in the Avell-known female hand ; 
and he laughed a little over it, and looked 
at liimself in the glass with a vaunting com- 
placency, and shook his head playfully at 
the envelope. It just crossed his sunshine 
like the shadow of a flying vapor — “ that 
cross-grained old Gwynn would not Amnture 
to meddle ?” But the envelope Avas honestly 
closed, and showed no signs of having been 
fiddled with. 

He made a luxury of this little letter, and 
read it in his easy chair, Avith his left leg 
over the arm, with the fragrant accompani- 
ment of the weed. 

“ Jealous, by Jove !” he ejaculated, in high 
glee ; “ little fool, Avhat’s put that in your 
liead V” 

“ Poor, little, fluttering, foolish thing !” 
sang the Baronet, and then laughed, not 
cynically, but indulgently rather. 

“ How audacious the little fools are upon 
paper I Egad, it’s a wonder there is not 
twice as much mischief in the Avorld as actu- 
ally happens. We must positiA^ely burn this 
little extravagance.” 

But before doing so he read it over again ; 
then smiling still, he gallantly touched it to 
his lips, and re -perused it, as he drew an- 
other cigar from the treasury of incense 
which he carried about him. He lighted the 
note, but did not apply it to his cigar, I am 
bound to say — partly from a fine feeling, and 
partly, I am afraid, because he thought that 
paper spoiled the flavor of his tobacco. So, 
v.ith a sentimental smile, a genile shrug, and 
a sigh of the LaAvrence Sterne pattern, he 
converted that dangerous little scrawl into 
ashes — and he thought, as he inhaled his 
Aveed — 


“ It is well for you, poor little fanatics, 
that Ave men take better care of you than 
you do of yourselves, sometimes !” 

JSTo doubt ; and Sir Jekyl supposed he Avas 
thinking only of his imprudent little corres- 
pondent, although there was another person 
in whom he Avas nearly interested, who 
might have been unpleasantly compromised 
also, if that document had fallen into other 
hands. 


CHAPTER YI. 

SIR jekyl’s room is visited. 

It AA^as near one o’clock. Sir Jekyl yaAvned 
and wound his watch, and looked at his bed 
as if he would like to be in it Avithout the 
trouble of getting there ; and at that moment 
there came a sharp knock at his door, which 
startled him, for he thought all his people 
were asleep by that time. 

“ Who’s there ?” he demanded in a loud 
key. 

“ It’s me, sir, please,” said Donica GAA^ynn’s 
voice. 

“ Come in, will you ?” cried he ; and she 
entered. 

“ Are you sick ?” he asked. 

“ Ho, sir, thank you,” she replied, with a 
sharp courtesy. 

“ You look so plaguy pale. Well, I’m 
glad you’re not. But what the deuce can 
you Avant of me at this hour of night ? Eh V” 

“ It’s only about that room, sir.” 

“ Oh, curse the room ! Talk about it in 
the morning. You ought to have been in 
your bed an hour ago.” 

“ So I was, sir ; but I could not sleep, sir, 
for thinking of it.” 

“Well, go back and think of it, if you 
must. Hoav can I stop you ? Don’t be a 
fool, old Gwynn.” 

“ No more I Avill, sir, please, if I can help, 
for fools we are, tlie most on us ; but I could 
not sleep, as I said, for thinking o’t ; and so 
I thought I’d jist put on my things again, 
and come and try if you, sir, might be still 
up.” 

“ Well, you see I’m up ; but I want to get 
to bed, GAA'ynn, and not to talk here about 
solemn bosh ; and you must not bore me 
about that green chamber — do you see — 
to-night, like a good old girl ; it Avill do in 
the morning — won’t it ?” 

“ So it will, sir; only I could not rest in 
my bed, until I said, seeing as you mean to 
sleep in this room, it would never do. It 
won’t. I can’t stand it.” 

“ Stand Avhat ? Egad ! it seems to me 
you’re demented, my good old Donica ” 

“ No Sir Jekyl,” she persisted, with a grim 
resolution to say out her say. “ You know 
very well, sir, what’s running in my head. 
You know it’s for nc good anyone sleeps 
there. General Lennox, ye say ; Avell ’an 
good. You know Avell what a loss Mr. Dev- 
erell met with in that room in Sir Harry, 
your father’s time.” 

“ And you slept in it, did not you, and saw 
somekiing ? Eh ?” 


GUY DEVERELL. 


19 


Yes, I cZ^c?,” she said, in a sudden furj^, 
with a little stamp on the floor, and a pale, 
staring frown. 

After a breathless pause of a second or two 
she resumed. 

“ And you know what your poor lady saw 
there, and never held up her head again. 
And well you know, sir, how your father. 
Sir Harry, on his death-bed, desired it should 
be walled up, when you were no more than 
a boy ; and your good lady did the same 
many a year after, when she was a dying. 
And I tell ye. Sir Jekyl, ye’ll sup sorrow 
yourself yet if you don’t. And take a fool’s 
counsel, and shut up that door, and never let 
no one, friend or foe, sleep there ; for well I 
know it’s not for nothing, with your dead 
father’s dying command, and your poor dear 
lady’s dying entreaty against it, that you put 
an3^one to sleep there. I don’t know who 
this General Lennox may be — a good gentle- 
man or a bad ; but I’m sure it’s for no right- 
eous reason he’s to lie there. You would not 
do it for nothing.” 

This harangue was uttered with a volubil- 
ity, which, as the phrase is, took Sir Jekyl 
/?%back. He was angry, but he was also per- 
plexed and a little stunned by the unexpected 
vehemence of his old housekeeper’s assault, 
and he stared at her with a rather bewildered 
countenance. 

“ You’re devilish impertinent,” at last he 
said, with an effort. “ You rant there like a 
madwoman, just because I like you, and 
you’ve been in our family, I believe, since 
before I was born ; you think you may say 
what you like. The house is mine, I believe, 
and I rather think I’ll do what I fhink best 
in it while I’m here.” 

“ And you going to sleep in this room !” 
she broke in. “ What else can it be ?” 

“ You mean — what the devil do you 
mean?” stammered the Baronet again, un- 
consciously assuming the defensive. 

“ I mean you know very well wliat^ Sir 
Jekyl,” she replied. 

“ It was my father’s room, hey ? — when I 
was a boy, as 3mu say. It’s good enough for 
his son, I suppose ; and I don’t ask you to 
lie in the green chamber.” 

“ III be no party, sir, if you please, to any 
one lying there,” she observed, with a stiff 
courtesy, and a sudden hectic in her cheek. 

“ Perhaps you mean because my door’s 
a hundred and fifty feet aw^ay from the front 
of the house, if any mischief should happen. 
I’m too far away — as others were before 
me — 16 prevent it, eh ?” said he, with a flur- 
ried sneer. 

“ What I mean, I mean, sir — you ought 
not ; that’s all. You won’t take it amiss. 
Sir Jekyl — I’m an old servant — I’m sorry, 
sir ; but I’a made up my mind what to do.” 

“ You’re not thinking of any foll3^, surely? 
You seem to me always too much afraid, or 
whatever you call it, of the remembrance, 
you know, "of what you mio there — eh ? — I 
don’t know, of course, what — to speak of it to 
me. I never pressed you, because you 
seemed — you know you did — to have a hor- 
ror ; and surely you’re not going now to talk 


, among the servants or other people. You 
, can’t be far from five-and-thirty years in the 
family.” 

► “ Four- and -thirty. Sir Jekyl, next April. 

It’s a good while ; but I won’t see no more 
■ o’ that; and unless the green chamber be 
, locked up, at the least, and used no more for 
, a bed-room, I’d rather go, sir. Nothing may 
. happen, of course. Sir Jck3d — it’s a hundred 
. to one nothing would happen ; but ye see, sir, 
! I’ve a feeling about it, ' sir ; and there has 
been these things ordered by your father that 
was, and by 3"our poor lady, as make me feel 
I queer. Nothing being done accordingl3q and 
I could not rest upon it, for sooner or later it 
would come to this, and stay I could not. 1 
judge no one — Heaven forbid, Sir Jekyl — oh, 
no ! my own conscience is as much as I can 
look to ; so sir, if you please, so soon as you 
can suit yourself I’ll leave, sir.” 

“ Stuff, old Gwynn ; don’t mind talking to- 
night,” said the Baronet, more kindly than 
he had spoken before ; “ we’ll see about it in 
the morning. Good-night. We must not 
quarrel about nothing. I was only a school- 
boy when you came to us, you know.” 

But in the morning “ old Gwynn” was re- 
solute. She was actually going, so soon as 
the master could suit himself She w^as not 
in a passion, nor in a panic, but in a state of 
gloomy and ominous obstinacy. 

“ Well, you’ll give me a little time, w^on't 
you, to look about me ?” said the Baronet, 
peevishly. 

“ Such is my intention, sir.” 

“ And see, Gwynn, not a word about that 
— that green chamber, you know, to Miss 
Beatrix.” 

“ As you please, sir.” 

“ Because if you begin to talk, they’ll all 
think we are haunted.” 

“ Whatever you please to order, sir.” 

“ And it was not — it was my grandfather, 
you know, w^ho built it.” 

“ Ah, so it was, sir and Gwynn looked 
astonished and shook her head, as though 
cowed by the presence of a master-spirit of 
evil. 

“One would fancy you saw his ghost, 
Gwynn ; but he was not such a devil as your 
looks would make him, only a bit wild, and 
a favorite with the w^omen, Gwynn — always 
the best judge of merit — hey ? Beau Marlowe 
they called him — the best dressed man of his 
day. How the devil could such a fellow 
have any* harm in him ?” 

There is a fine picture, full length, of Beau 
Marlowe, over the chimneypiece of the great 
hall of Marlowe. He has remarkabU^ gentle- 
manlike hands and legs ; the gloss is on his 
silk stockings still. His features are hand- 
some, of that type which w^e conventionally 
term aristocratic ; high, and smiling with a 
Louis-Quatorze insolence. He wears a veiy 
fine coat of cut velvet, of a rich, dusky red, the 
technical name of which I forget. He w^as 
of the gilded. and powdered youth of his day. 

He certainly was a handsome fellow, this 
builder of the “ green chamber,” and he has 
not placed his candle under a bushel. He 
shines in many parts of the old house, and 


20 


GUY DEVERELL. 


has repeated himself in all manner of be- 
coming suits. You see him three-quarters, 
in the parlor, in blue and silver ; you meet 
him in crayon, and again in small oil, oval ; 
and you have him in half a dozen miniatures. 

We mention this ancestor chiefly because 
when his aunt. Lady Mary, left him a legacy, 
he added the green chamber to the house. 

It seems odd that Sir Jekyl, not fifty yet, 
should have had a grandfather who was a 
fashionable and wicked notoriety of mature 
years, and who had built an addition to the 
family mansion so long as a hundred and 
thirty years ago. But this gentleman had 
married late, as rakes sometimes do, and his 
son. Sir Harry, married still later— some- 
where about seventy; having been roused 
to this uncomfortable exertion by the pro- 
prietorial airs of a nephew who was next in 
succession. To this matrimonial explosion 
Sir Jekyl owed his entrance and agreeable 
sojourn upon the earth. 

“ I won’t ask you to stay now ; you’re in a 
state. I’ll write to town for Sinnott, as you 
insist on it ; but you won’t leave us in con- 
fusion, and you’ll make her au fait — won’t 
you ? Give her any hints she Inay require ; 
and I know I shall have you back again 
when you cool a little, or at all events when 
we go back to Dartbroke ; for I don’t think 
I shall like this place.” 

So Donica Gwynn declared herself willing 
to remain till Mrs. Sinnott should ariive 
Trom London ; and preparations for the re- 
ception of guests proceeded with energy. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE BARONET PURSUES. 

Sir Jekyl Marlowe was vexed when the 
letters came, and none from Pelter and 
Crowe. There are people who expect mir- 
acles from their doctors and lawyers, and, in 
proportion to their accustomed health and 
prosperity, are unreasonable when anything 
goes wrong. The Baronet’s notion was that 
the legal firm in question ought to think and 
even dream of nothing else than his business. 
It was an impertinence their expecting Mm 
to think about it. What were they there for ? 
He knew that London was a pretty large 
place, and England still larger ; and that it 
was not always easy to know wdiat every- 
body was about in either, and still less wdiat 
each man was doing on the Continent. Pelter 
and Crowe had some other clients too on 
tlieir hands, and had hitherto done very sat- 
isfactorily. But here was a serious-looking 
thing — the first really uncomfortable occur- 
rence which had taken place under his reign 
— the first opportunity for exhibiting common 
vigilance — and he ventured to say those fel- 
lows did not know these Strangw^ays people 
were in these kingdoms at all ! 

Sir Jekyl, though an idle fellow, was a 
man of action, so he ordered his horse, and 
rode nine miles to the “ Plough Inn,” where 
he hoped to see Mr. Strang ways again, im- 
prove his intimacy, and prevail with the| 


gentleman to return with him to Marlow^e 
and spend a fortnight there, w^hen, or the 
devil was in it, he should contrive to get at 
the bottom of their plans. . 

He looked shrewdly in at the open door as 
he rode up, and hallooed for some one to 
take his horse. The. little porch smiled 
pleasantly, and the two gables and weather 
cock, in the sunlight ; and the farmer on the 
broad and dingy panel, in his shirt-sleeves, 
low - crowned, broad - leafed hat, crimson 
waistcoat, canary-colored shorts, and blue 
stockings, and flaxen wig, was driving his 
plump horses, and guiding his plough, undis- 
couraged as when last he saw him. 

Boots and Mrs. Jones came out. Sir Jekyl 
was too eager to wait to get down ; so from 
the saddle he accosted his buxom hostess, in 
his usual affable style.' The Baronet was not 
accustomed to be crossed and thwarted as 
much as, I have been told, men with less 
money sometimes are ; and he showed his 
mortification in his face when he learned 
that tlie tw'o gentlemen had left very early 
that morning. 

“ This morning ! Why you said 5^esterday 
they would not go till evening. Hang it, I - 
wish you could tell it right ; and what the ’ 
d — 1 do you mean by Strangers ? Call him 
Strangways, can’t you. It’s odd people can’t 
say names.” 

He must have been very much vexed to 
speak so sharply ; and he saw, perhaps, how^ 
much he had forgotten himself in the fright- 
ened look which good Mrs. Jones turned 
upon him. 

“ I don’t mean you, my good little soul. 
It’s their fault ; and where are they gone to ? 

I wanted to ask them both over to Marlowe. 
Have you a notion ?” 

“ They took our horses as far as the ‘ Bell 
and Horns,’ at Slowton.” She called shrilly 
to Boots, “ They’re not stopping at the ‘ Bell 
and Horns,’ sure. Come here, and tell Sir 
Jek5d Marlowe about Mr. Strangers.” 

“ You said last niglit they were going to 
Awkworth and Sir Jekyl chuckled scorn- 
fully, for he was vexed. 

“ They changed their minds, sir.” 

“ Well, we’ll say so. You’re a wonderful 
fascinating sex. Egad ! if you could only 
carry anything right in your heads for ten 
minutes, you’d be too charming.” And at 
this point Boots emerged, and Sir Jekyl con- 
tinued, addressing him — 

‘‘Well, wdiere are the gentlemen who left 
this morning ?” asked he. 

“ They’ll be at the ‘ Bell and Horne,’ sir.” 

“ Where’s that ?” 

“ Slowton, sir.” 

“ I know. What hour did they go ?” 

“ Eight o’clock, sir.” 

“ Just seven miles. The Sterndale Road, 
isn’t it ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

And that was all that Boots had to tell. 

“ Will ye please to come in, sir ?” inquired 
Mrs. Jones. 

“ Ho, my good creature. I haven’t time. 
The old gentleman — what’s his name ?” 

“ I don’t know, sir, please. He calls the 


GUY DEVERELL. 


21 


young gentleman Guy, and the yoyng gen- 
tleman calls him sir-' 

“ And both the same name ?” 

“ We calls ’em both Strangers, please, sir.” 

“ I know. Servants, had they ?” 

Yes, sir, please. But they sent ’em on.” 

“ Rich— don’t want for money, I suppose. 
Eh ?” 

i “ Oh ! plenty of money, sir.” 

“ And the servants called the men Strang- 
ways, I suppose, eh ?” 

“ Yes, Sir Jekyl, please ; and so the letters 
came.” 

“You never happened to hear any other 
name ?” 

“ No, Sir Jekyl.” 

“ Thinkr 

Mrs. Jones did think, but could recall 
nothing. 

“ Nothing with a D ?” 

“D, sir! What, sir?” 

“ No matter what,” said the Baronet. 
“ No name beginning with D — eh ?” 

“ No, sir. You don’t think they’re going 
by a Mse name ?” inquired the lady, curi- 
ously. 

“ What the devil puts that in your head ? 
ake care of the law ; you must not talk 
that way, you foolish little rogue.” 

“ I did not know, sir,” timidly answered 
Mrs. Jones, who saw in Sir Jekyl, the Par- 
liament-man, Deputy-Lieutenant, and Grand 
Juror, a great oracle of the law. 

“ I oniy wanted to know whether you had 
happened to hear the name of the elder of ' 
the two gentlemen, and could recollect what 
letter it begins with.” 

“ No, sir, please.” 

“ So you’ve no more to tell me ?” 

“ Nothing, sir.” 

“ If they come back tell them I rode over 
to offer them some shooting, and to beg 
they’d remember to come to Marlowe. You 
won’t forget ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Do they return here ? ” 

“ I think not, sir.” 

“ Well, I believe there’s nothing else,” and 
the Baronet looked up reflectively, as if he 
expected to find a memorandum scribbled on 
the blue sky, leaning with his hand on the 
back of his horse. “ No, nothing. You won’t 
forget my message, that’s all. Good-bye, my 
dear.” 

And touching the tips of his gloves to his 
lips, with a smile and a nod he cantered 
down the Sterndale Road. 

He pulled up at the “ Bell and Horns,” in 
the little town of Slowton, but was disappoint- 
ed. The entire party, servants and all, had 
taken the train two hours before, at the sta- 
tion three miles away. 

Now Sir Jekyl was blooded, and the spirit 
of the chase stirred within him. So he rode 
down in his jack-boots, and pulled up his 
steaming horse by the station, and he went 
in and made inquiry. 

A man like liim is received even at one of 
these cosmopolitan rall 3 dng-points within his 
own country with becoming awe. The sta- 
tion-master was awfully courteous, and the 


subaltern officials awfully active and obliging, 
and the resources of the establishrqent were 
at once placed at his sublime disposal. 
•Unhappily, two branch lines converge at this 
point, causing the usual bustle, and there was 
consequently a conflict and confusion in the 
evidence; so that Sir Jekyl, who laughed 
and chatted agreeably amidst all the reveren- 
tial zeal that surrounded him, could arrive at 
nothing conclusive, but leaned to the view 
that the party had actually gone to Awk- 
worth, only by rail, instead of by road. 

Sir Jekyl got on his horse and walked him 
through the town, uncertain what to do next 
This check had cooled him ; his horse had his 
long trot home still. It would not do to fol- 
low to Awkworth ; to come in, after a four- 
and-twenty miles’ ride, bespattered like a 
a courier, merely to invite these gentlemen, 
vim wcBj who had hardly had his note of in- 
vitation a score hours. It would be making 
too much of them with a vengeance. 

As he found himself once more riding 
under the boughs of Marlowe, the early 
autumn evening already closing in, Sir Jekyl 
experienced one of those qualms and sink- 
ings of the heart, which overcome us with a 
vague anticipation of evil. 

The point of the road which he had now 
gained, commands a view of the old hall of 
Marlowe, with that projecting addition, and 
its wide bow-window, every pane of which 
was now flaming in the sunset light, which 
indicated the green chamber. 

The green chamber ! Just at that moment 
the glare of its broad window flashed with a 
melancholy and vengeful light upon his 
brain, busied with painful retrospects and 
harrassing conjecture. 

Old Gwynn going away 1 It was an omen. 
Marlowe without old Gwynn. Troy without 
its palladium. Old Gwynn going with some- 
thing like a deunciacion on her lips I That 
stupid old woman at Wardlock, too, who 
really knew nothing about it,uudertaking also 
to prophesy ! Out of the mouths of babes 
and sucklings 1 There was no sense in it — 
scarcely articulation. Still it was the croak 
of the raven — the screech of the owl. 

He looked across the gentle slope at the 
angle of the inauspicious room.' Why 
should old General Lennox be placed within 
the unhallowed precincts of that chamber ? 
The image of old Gwynn as she gabbled her 
grim protest on the preceding night, rose 
before him like a ghost. What business was 
it of hers, and how could she divine his 
motives ? Still, if there was anything wrong 
did not this vehement warning make the 
matter worse. 

An old man he felt himself on a sudden 
that evening, and for the first time. There 
was some failure of the electric fire, and a 
subsidence of the system. His enterprise 
was gone. Why should he take guilt, if such 
it ■were, on his soul for vanity and vexation 
of spirit ? If guilt it were, was it not of a 
kind inexcusably cool-blooded and long- 
headed. Old Gwynn, he did not like to lose 
you on those terms— just, too, as those un- 
known actors were hovering at the wing. 



23 


GUY DEVERELL. 


and about to step upon the 'stage, this old 
man and 3"Oung, who, instinctively he felt, 
were meditating mischief against him. Mis- 
chief — f Such, perhaps, as might shat- 
ter the structure of his greatness, and strew 
Its pinnacles in the dust. Perhaps all this 
gloom was but the depression of a long ride, 
and still longer fast. But he was accustomed 
to such occassional strains upon his strength 
without any such results. Ah, no ! He had 
come within the edge of the shadow of judg- 
ment, and its darkness was stealing' over him, 
and its chill touched his heart. 

These were the dreamy surmisings with 
which he rode slowly toward the house, and 
a few good resolutions in a nebulous state 
hovered uncomfortably about him. 

No letter of any interest had come by the 
early post, and Sir Jekyl sat down tete-a-tete 
with his prett}^ daughter, in ver}" dismal 
spirits, to dinner. 


CHAPTER YIIL 

THE HOUSE BEGINS TO FILL. 

Beathix was fond of her father, who was 
really a good-natured man, in the common 
acceptance of the term, that is to say, he had 
high animal spirits, and liked to see people 
pleasant about him, and was probably as 
kind as a tolerably selfish and vicious man 
can be, and had a liking, moreover, for old 
faces, which was one reason why he hated 
the idea of his housekeeper’s leaving* him. 
But Beatrix was also a little in awe of him, 
as girls often are of men of whom they see 
but little, especially if they have something of 
the masculine decision of tempef. 

“ You may all go awmy now,” said the 
Boronet suddenly to the servants, who had 
waited at dinner ; and when the liveried 
phantoms had withdrawn, and the door had 
closed on the handsome calves of tall and 
solemn Jenkins, he said — 

“Nothing all day — no adventure, no 
visitor, Trixie — not a word of news or fun 
I dare say ?” 

“ Nothing — not a creature, papa ; only 
the birds and dogs, and some new music.” 

“Well, it is not much worse than Ward- 
lock, I suppose; but we shall have a gay 
house soon — at all events plenty of people. 
Old General Lennox is coming. His 
nephew. Captain Drayton, is very rich ; he 
will be Lord Tewkesbury — that is, if old 
Tewkesbury doesn’t marry ; and, at all 
events, he has a very nice property, and 
does not owe a guinea. You need not look 
modest, Trixie. You may do just as you 
please, only I’d be devilish glad you liked 
one another — there, don’t be distressed, I 
say ; I’ll mentiouv it no more if you don’t 
like ; but he’ll be here in a few days, and 
you ma^m’t think him so bad.” 

After this the Baronet drank two glasses 
of sherry in silence, slowdy, and with a 
gloomy countenance, and then, said he — 

“ I think, Trixie, if you were happily 
placed, I should give the whole thing up. 


I’m tirecj of that cursed House of Commons. 
You can’t imagine what a bore it is, when 
a fellow does not want anything from them, 

going down there for their d d divisions. 

I’m not fit for the hounds either. I can’t 
'fide as I used— egad ! I’m as stifi* as a 
rusty hinge wdien I get up in the morning. 
And I don’t much like this place, and I’m 
tired to death of the other two. When you * 
mari'y I’ll let them, or, at all events, let 
them alone. I’m tired of all those servants. 

I know they’re robbing me, egad I You 
would not believe what my gardens cost 
me last year, and, by Jove, I don’t believe all 
that came to my table was worth two hun- 
dred pounds. I’ll have quite a different 
sort of life. I haven’t any time to myself, 
looking after all those confounded people 
one must keep about them. Keepeis, and 
gardeners, and devil knows who beside. I 
don’t like London half as well as the Conti- 
nent. I hate dinner-parties, and the season, 
and all the racket. It dosn’t pay, and 
I’m growing old — jmu’ll not mind if I 
smoke it?” (he held a cigar between his 
fingers) — “ a complaint that doesn’t mend 
by time, you know. Oh ! yes, I am olck|| 
you little rogue. Eveiybody knows I’ln^ 
just fift}^; and the fact is I’m tired of the 
whole thing, stock, lock, and barrel ; and I 
believe wfiiat little is to be got of life is best 
had — that is, if you know how^ to look for 
it — abroad. A fellow like me who has got 
places and properties — egad ! they expect 
him to live pro hono publico^ and not to 
care or think twopence about himself— 
at least it comes to that. How is old 
Gwynn ?” 

“ Very well, I think.” 

“And what has she to say for herself; 
what about things in general ? ” 

“ She’s not very chatty, poor old Gwynn, 
and I think she seems a little— just ever so 
little — cross.” 

“ So she does— damnably cross. She was 
always a bit of a vixen, and she isn’t im- 
proving, poor old thing ; but don’t be afraid, 

I like old Donnie for all that, though I 
don’t think I ever quite understood her, 
and I don’t expect either.” These obser- 
vations concluded, the conversation subsided, 
and a long silence supervened. 

“ I wonder who the devil he is,” said the 
Baronet abruptly, as he threw the stump 
of his cigar into the fire. If it’s a fluke, 
it’s as like a miracle as anything I ever 
saw.” 

He recollected that he was talking with- 
out an interlocutor, and looked for a 
moment hesitatingly at his daughter. 

“ And your grandmamma told you no- 
thing of her adventure in church?” 

“ No papa— not a word.” 

“ It seems to me, women can hold their 
tongues sometimes, but always in the -wrong 
places.” 

Here he shook the ashes of his cigar into 
the grate. 

“ Old Granny’s a fool — isn’t she, Trixie, 
and a little bit vicious— eh ?” 

Sir J ekyl put his question dreamily, in a 


GUY DEVERELL. 


reverie, and it plainly needed no answer. 
So Beatrix was spared the pain of making 
one ; which she was glad of, for Lady Alice 
was good to her after her way, and she was 
fond of her. 

“ We must ask her to come, you know. 
You write. Say I thought you would have 
a better chance of prevailing. She won’t, 
you know ; and so much the better.” 

So as the Baronet rose, and stood gloomily 
with his back to the fire, the young lady 
rose also, and ran away to the drawing- 
room and her desk ; and almost at the same 
moment a servant entered the room, with a 
letter, which had come by the late post. 

Oddly enough, it had the Slow ton post- 
mark. 

“Devilish odd!” exclaimed Sir Jekyl, 
scowling eagerly on it ; and seating himself 
hastily on the side of a chair, he broke it 
open and read at the foot the autograph, 
“ Guy Strangways.” 

It was with the ISTapoleonic thrill, “ I have 
them, then, these English 1” that Sir Jek 3 d 
read, in a gentlemanlike, rather^ foreign 
hand, a ceremonious and complimentary 
j|acceptance of his invitation to Marlowe, on 
behalf of the young man and of his elder 
companion. His correspondent could not 
say exactly, as their tour was a little desul- 
tory, where a note would find them ; but as 
Sir Jekyl Marlowe had been so good as to 
permit them to name a day for their visit, 
tiiey would say so and so. 

“ Let me see— what day’s this— why, that 
will be,” — he was counting with the tips of 
his fingers, pianowise, on the table — “ Wed- 
nesday week, eh ?” and he tried it over again 
with nature’s “ Babbage’s machine,” and of 
course with an inflexible result. “ Wednes- 
day week — Wednesday,” and he heaved a 
great sigh, like a man with a load taken off 
him. 

“ Well, I’m devilish glad. I hope nothing 
will happen to stop them now. It can’t be a 
‘ruse to get quietly off the ground? Ho — - 
that would be doing it too fine.” He rang the 
bell. 

“ I want Mrs. Gwynn.” 

The Baronet’s spirit revived within him, 
and he stood erect, with his back to the fire, 
and his hands behind him, and when the 
housekeeper entered, he received her with 
his accustomed smile. 

“ Glad to see you, Donnie. Glass of sherry ? 
— well, sit down — won’t take a chair ! — 
why’s that? Well, we’ll be on pleasanter 
terms soon — you’ll find it’s really no choice of 
mine. I can’t help using that green room. 
Here are two more friends coming — not till 
Wednesday week though— two gentlemen. 
You may put them in rooms beside one 
another— wherever you like only not in the 
garrets, of course. Good rooms, do ye see.” 

“ And what’s the gentlemen’s names, 
please, Sir Jekyl?” inquired Mrs. Gwynn. 

“ Mr. Strangways, the young gentleman ; 
and the older, as well as I can read it, is 
Mr. Varbarriere.” 

“ Thank ye, sir.” 

The housekeeper havir.g again declined 


23 

the kindly distinction of a glass of sherry, 
withdrew. 

In less than a week guests began to assem- 
ble, and in a few days more old Marlowe 
Hall began to wear a hospitable and plea- 
sant countenance. 

The people were not, of course, themselves 
all marvels of agreeability. For instance, 
Sir Paul Blunket, the great agriculturist 
and eminent authority on liquid manures, 
might, as we all know, be a little livelier 
with advantage. He is short and stolid ; he 
wears a pale blue muslin neck-hand kerchief 
with white stripe, carefully tied. His coun- 
tenance, I am bound to sa}^ is what some 
people would term heavy — it is frosty, pain- 
fully shaven, and shines with a glare of 
transparent soap. He has small, very light 
blue round eyes, and never smiles. A joke 
always strikes him with unaflected amaze- 
ment and suspicion. Laughter he knows 
maj^ imply ridicule, and he may himself pos- 
sibly be the subject of it. He waits till it 
subsides, and then takes on as before on sub- 
jects which interest him. 

Lady Blunket who accompanies him 
everj^where, though not tall, is stout. She 
is delicate, and requires nursing ; and, for 
so confirmed an invalid, has a surprising 
appetite. John Blunket, the future Baronet, 
is in the Diplomatic Service, I forget exactly 
where, and by no means young; and lean 
Miss Blunket, at Marlowe with her parents, 
though known to be older than her brother, 
is still quite a girl, and giggles with her 
partner at dinner, and is very naive and ani- 
mated, and sings arch little chansons discor- 
dantly to the guitar, making considerable 
play with her eyes, which are black and 
malignant. 

This family, though neither decorative nor 
entertaining, being highly respectable and 
ancient, make a circuit of all the good houses 
in the county every year, and are Avonder- 
fidly little complained of. Hither also they 
had brought in their train prety little Mrs. 
Maberly, a cousin, whose husband, the Major, 
was in India — a garrulous and good-natured 
siren, who smiled with pearly little teeth, 
and blushed easily. 

At Marlowe had already assembled several 
single gentlemen too. There Avas little Tom 
Linnet, Avith no end of money and spirits, 
veiy good-natured, addicted to sentiment, and* 
Avith a taste for practical joking too, and a 
very popular character notwithstanding. 

Old Dick Doocey Avas there also, a colonel 
long retired, and Avell known at several 
crack London clubs ; tall, slight, courtly, 
agreeable, Avith a capital elderly Avig, a little 
deaf, and his handsome high nose a little 
reddish. Billy Cobb— too, a gentleman avIio 
could handle a gun, and kncAv lots about 
horses and dogs — had arriAmd. 

Captain Drayton had arrived : a SAAmll, 
handsome, cleverish, and impertinent, and, 
as young men Avith less reason will be, 
egotistical. He avouJ.;! not have admitted 
that he liad deigned to make either plan or 
exertion Avith that object, but so it happened 
that he was placed next to Miss Beatrix, 


24 


GUY DEVERELL. 


whom he carelessly entertained with agree- 
able ironies, and anecdotes, and sometimes 
poetic and perhaps a little vapid. On the 
whole, a young gentleman of intellect, as 
well as wealth and expectations, and who 
felt, not unnaturally, that he was over- 
powering. Miss Beatrix, though not quite 
twenty, was not overpowered, however, 
neither was her heart preoccupied. There 
was, indeed, a shadow of another handsome 
young gentleman — only a shadow, in a dif- 
ferent style — dark, and this one light ; and 
she heart-whole, perhaps fancy-free, amused, 
delighted, the world still new and only 
begun to be explored. One London season 
she had partly seen, and also made her an- 
nual tour twice or thrice of all the best 
country-houses, and so was not nervous 
among her peers. 


CHAPTER IX. 

DINNER. 

Of the two guests destined for the green 
chamber, we must be permitted to make 
special mention. 

General and Lady Jane Lennox had come. 
The General, a tall, soldierlike old gentleman, 
who held his bald and pink, but not very 
high forehead, erect, with great grey project- 
ing moustache, twisted up at the corners, 
and bristling grey eyebrows to correspond, 
over his frank round grey eyes — a gentleman 
with a decidedly military bearing, imperious 
but kindly aspect, good-natured, prompt, and 
perhaps a little stupid. 

Lady Jane— everybody knows Lady Jane 
— the most admired of London belles for a 
whole season. Golden brown hair, and what 
young Thrumly of the Guards called, in 
these exquisite lines of his, “ slumbrous eyes 
of blue,” under very long la-shes and exquis- 
itely-traced eyebrows, such brilliant lips and 
teeth, and such a sweet oval face, and above 
all, so beautiful a figure and wonderful a 
waist, might have 'made one marvel how a 
iacly SO well qualified for a title, with noble 
blood, though but a small should have 
wrecked herself on an old general, though 
with eight thousand a year. But there were 
stories and reasons why the simple old officer, 
just home from India, who knew nothing 
about London lies, and was sure of his 
knighthood, and it was said of a baronetage, 
did not come amiss. 

There were people who chose to believe 
these stories, and people who chose to dis- 
credit them. But General Lennox never 
had even heard them ; and certainly, it 
seemed nobody’s business to tell him now. 
It might not have been quite pleasant to tell 
the General. He was somewdiat muddled 
of apprehension, and slow in eveiy thing but 
fighting, and having all the old-fashioned 
notions about hair-triggers, and “ ten paces,” 
as the proper ordeal in a misunderstanding, 
people avoided uncomfortable topics in his 
company, and were for the most part dis- 
posed to let well alone. 

Lady Jane had a will and a temper ; but 


the General held his ground firmly. As 
brave men as he have been henpecked ; but 
somehow he was not of the temperament 
which will submit to be bullied even by a 
lady ; and as he was indulgent and easily 
managed, that tactique was the line she had 
adopted. Lady Jane was not a riant beauty. . 
Luxurious, funeste, sullen, the mystery and 
melancholy of her face was a relief among 
the smirks and simpers of the ball-room, and 
the novelty of the style interested for a time 
even the Uaze men of twenty seasons 

Several guests of lesser note there were ; 
and the company had sat down to dinner; 
when the Reverend Dives Marlowe, rector of 
the succulent family living of Queen’s Chor- 
leigh;made his appearance in the parlor, a 
little to the surprise of his brother the Baro- 
net, who did not expect him quite so soon. 

The Rector was a tall man and stalwart, 
who had already acquired that convex curve 
which indicates incipient 'Corpulence, and 
who, though younger than his brother, look- 
ed half a dozen years his senior. With a 
broad bald forehead, projecting eyebrows, a 
large coarse mouth, and with what I may 
term the rudiments of a double chin — alto- 
gether an ugly and even repulsive face, but 
with no lack of energy and decision — one 
looked with wonder from this gross, fierce 
clerical countenance to the Baronet’s face, 
and wondered how the two men could really 
be brothers. 

The cleric shook his brother’s hand in 
passing, and smiled and nodded briefly here 
and there, right and left, and across the table 
his recognition, and chuckled a harsher 
chuckle that his brothers, as he took his 
place, extemporized with the quiet legerde- 
main of a consummate butler by Ridley ; and 
answered in a brisk, abrupt voice the smiling 
inquiries of friends. 

“ Hope you have picked up an appetite on 
the waj^. Dives,” said the Baronet. Dives 
generally carried a pretty good one about 
with him. “ Good air on the way, and 
pretty good mutton here, too — my friends 
tell me.” 

“ Capital air — capital mutton — capital fish,” 
replied the ecclesiastic, in a brisk, business- 
like tone, while being a man of nerve, he got 
some fish, although that esculent had long 
vanished, and even the entrees had passed 
into history, and called over his shoulder for 
the special sauces which his soul loved, and 
talked, and compounded his condiments with 
energy and precision. 

The Rector was a shrewd and gentleman- 
like, though not a very pretty, apostle, and 
had made a sufficient toilet before presenting 
himself, and snapped and gobbled his fish, in 
a glossy, single-breasted coat, with standing 
collar ; a ribbed silk waistcoat, covering his 
ample chest, almost like a cassock, and one 
of these transparent muslin dog-collars which 
High Churchmen affect. 

“Well, Dives,” cried Sir Jekyl, “ how do 
the bells ring ? I gave them a chime, poor 
devils ” (this was addressed to Lady Blanket 
at his clbpw), “ by way of compensation, 
when I sent them Dives.” 


GUY DEYERELL, 


“ Pretty well ; they don’t know how to 
pull ’em, I think, quite,” answered Dives, 
dabbing a bit of fish in a pool of sauce, and 
punching it into shape with his bit of bread. 

“ And how is old Parson Moulders ?” con- 
tinued the Baroiiet, pleasantly. 

“ I haven’t heard,” said the Rector, and 
drank off half his glass of hock. 

“ Can’t believe it. Dives. Here’s Lady 
Blunket knows. He’s the aged incumbent of 
Droughton. A devilish good living in my 
gift ; and of course you’ve been asking how 
the dear old fellow is.” 

“ I haven’t, upon my word ; not but I 
ought, though,” said the Rev. Dives Mar- 
lowe, as if he did not see the joke. 

“ He’s very severe on you,” simpered fat 
Lady Blunket, faintly, across the table, and 
subsided with a little cough, as if the exer- 
tion hurt her. 

“ Is he ? Egad ! I never perceived it.” The 
expression was not clerical, but the speaker 
did not seem aware he had uttered it. “ How 
dull I must be ! Have you ever been in this 
part of the world before, Lady Jane ?” con- 
tinued he, turning to^vards General Lennox’s 
wife, who sat beside him. 

“ I’ve been to Wardlock, a good many 
years ago ; but that’s a long way from this, 
and I almost forget it,” answered Lady Jane, 
in her languid, haughty way. 

“ In wliat direction is Wardlock,” she ask- 
ed of Beatrix, raising her handsome, un- 
fathomable eyes for a moment. 

“ You can see it from the bow- window of 
your room — I mean that oddly-shaped hill to 
the right.” 

“ That’s from the green chamber,” said the 
Rector. “ I remember the view. Isn’t it.” 

“ Yes They have put Lady Jane in the 
haunted room,” said Beatrix, smiling and 
nodding to Lady Jane. 

“ And wdiat fool, pray, told you that,” said 
the Baronet, perhaps just a little sharply. 

“ Old Gwymi seems to think so,” answered 
Beatrix, with the surprised and frightened 
look of one who fancies she has made a blun- 
der, “ I — of course we know it is all folly.” 

“ You must not say that — you shan’t dis- 
enchant us,” said Lady Jane. “ There’s noth- 
ing I should so like as a haunted room ; it’s a 
charming idea — isn’t it, Arthur?” she in- 
quired of the General. 

“We had a haunted room in my quarters 
at Puttypoor,” observed the General, twid- 
dling the point of one of his moustaches. 
“ It was the store-room where we kept pick- 
les, and olives, and preserves, and plates, 
and jars, and glass bottles. And every night 
there was a confounded noise there; jars, 
qaid bottles, and things tumbling about, made 
a devil of a row, you know. I got Smith — 
my servant Smith, you know, a very respec- 
table man — uncommon steady fellow. Smith 
— to watch, and he did. We kept the door 
closed, and Smith outside. I gave him half- 
a-crown a night and his supper — very well 
for Smith, you know. Sometimes he kept 
a light, and sometimes I made him sit in the 
dark with matches ready.” 

“ Was not he very much frightened ?” 


25 

asked Beatrix, who was deeply interested in 
the ghost. 

“ 1 hope you gave him a smelling-bottle ?” 
inquired Tom Linnett, with a tender con- 
cern. 

“ Well, I don’t suppose he was,” said the 
General, smiling good-humoredly on pretty 
Beatrix, while he loftily passed by the hu- 
n\orous inquiry of the young gentleman. 
“ He was, in fact, on dooty, you know ; and 
there were occasional noises and damage 
done in the store-room — in fact, just the same 
as if Smith was not there.” 

“ Oh, possibly Smith himself among the 
bottles !” suggested Linnett. 

“ He always got in as quick as he could,” 
continued the General ; “ but could not see 
anyone. Things were broken — bottles some- 
times.” 

“ How very strange,” exclaimed Beatrix, 
charmed to hear the tale of wonder. 

“We could not make it out ; it was very 
odd, you know,” resumed the narrator. 

“ You weren’t frightened. General?” in- 
quired Linnett. 

“ No^ sir,” replied the General, who held 
that a soldier’s courage, like a lady’s reputa- 
tion, was no subject for jesting, and con- 
veyed that sentiment by a slight pause, and 
a rather alarming stare from under his fierce 
grey ej^ebrows. “ No one was frightened, I 
suppose ; we were all men in the house, sir.” 

“ At home, I think, we’d have suspected a 
rat or a cat,” threw in the Rector. 

“ Some did, sir,”- replied the General ; “ and 
we made a sort of a search ; but it wasn’t. 
There was a capital tiled floor, not a hole you 
could put a ramrod in ; and no cat, neither — 
high windows, grated ; and the door always 
close; and every now and then something 
broken by night.” 

“ Delightful ! That’s wdiat Mrs. Crowe, in 
that charming bof>l^, you know, “ The Night 
Side of Nature,” calls, I forget the name ; 
but it’s a German word, I think — the noisy 
ghost it means. Racket — something, isn’t it, 
Beet ?” (the short for Beatrix). “ I do so de- 
mur ghosts !” cried sharp old Miss Blunket, 
who thought Beatrix’s enthusiasm became 
her ; and chose to exhibit the same pretty 
fanaticism. 

“ I didn’t say it was a ghost, mind j’-e,” in- 
terposed the General, Avith a grave regard for 
his veracity ; “ only we Avere puzzled a bit. 
There was something there w^e all knew ; 
and something that could reach up to the 
high shelves, and break things on the floor 
too, you see. We had been watching, off 
and on, I think, some three or four Aveeks, 
and I heard one night, early, a roAv in the 
store-room — a devil of a roAV it Avas ; but 
Smith Avas on dooty, as Ave used to say, that 
night, so I left it to him ; and he could have 
sung out, you knoAV, if he Avanted help — ^poor 
felloAV ! And in the morning my native fel- 
loAV told me that poor Smith Avas dead in the 
store-room ; and, egad ! so ho Avas, poor fel- 
low !” 

“ Hoav awful !” exclaimed Beatrix. 

And Miss Blunket, in girlish horror, cover- 
ed her fierce black eyes with her lank fingers. 


26 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ A bite of a cobra, by Jove ! above the 
knee, and another on the hand. A fattish 
fellow, poor Smith, the natives say they go 
faster — that sort of man ; but no one can 
stand a Mr bite of a cobra — I defy you. W e 
killed him after.” 

“ What ! Smith whispered Linnett in his 
neighbor’s ear. 

“ He lay in a basket ; you never saw such 
a brute, ” continued the General ; “he was 
very near killing another of my people.” 

“ So there was your ghost ?” said Eoocey, 
archly. 

“ Worse than a ghost,” observed Sir Paul 
Blunket 

“ A dooced deal,” acquiesced the General, 
gravely. 

“ You’re very much annoyed with vermin 
oiit there in India ?” remarked Sir Paul. 

“ So we are, sir,” agreed the General. 

“ It’s very hard, you see, to meet with a 
genuine ghost. Miss Marlowe ; they generally 
turn out impostors,” said Doocey. 

“ I should like to think my room was 
haunted,” said Lady Jane. 

“ Oh ! dear Lady Jane, how can you be so 
horribly brave ?” cried Miss Blunket. 

“We have no cobras here, at all events,” 
said Sir Paul, nodding to Sir Jekyl, with the 
gravit}?- becoming such a discovery. 

“ ISTo,” said Sir Jekyl, gloomily. I suppose 
he w^as thinking of something else. 

The ladies now floated away like summer 
clouds, many-tinted, golden, through the 
door, which Doocey held gracefully open ; 
and the mere mortals of the party, the men, 
stood up in conventional adoration, while 
the divinities were translated, as it w-ere, be- 
fore their eyes, and hovered out of sight 
and hearing into the resplendent regions of 
candelabra and mirrors, nectar and ambrosia, 
tea and plum-cake, and clouds of silken ta- 
pestry, and the musical tinkling their owm 
celestial small-talk. 


CHAPTER X. 

INQUIRIES HAVE BEEN MADE BY MESSRS. 

BELTER AND CROWE. 

Before repairing to bed, such fellows, 
young, or old, as liked a talk and a cigar, and 
some sherry— or, by’r lady, brandy and water 
— were always invited to accompany Sir 
Jekyl to wfliat he termed the back settlement, 
where he bivouacked among deal chairs and 
tables, with a little camp-bed, and plenty of 
w^ax candles and a brilliant little Are. 

Here, as the Baronet smoked in his homely 
little “ liut,” as he termed it, after his* guests 
had dispersed to their bed-rooms, the Rev. 
Dives Marlowm that night knocked at the 
door, crying, “ May I come in, Jekyl?” 

“ Certainly, dear Dives.” 

“ You really mean it ?” 

“ Xever wms parson so welcome.” 

“ B}'- Jove !” said the Rector, “ it’s later 
than I thought— you are sure I don’t bore 
you.” 

“ Hot sure, but you may, Dives,” said Sir 
Jekyl, observing his countenance, wfliich w^as 


not quite pleasant, “ Come in, and say your 
say. Have a weed, old boy ?” 

“ Well, well — a — we’re alone. I don’t 
mind — I don’t generally — not that there’s 
any harm ; but some people, very good people, 
object — the weaker brethren, you knowL” 

“ Consummate asses, we call them ; but 
weaker brethren, as you say, does as well.” 

The Rector wms choosing and sniffing out 
a cigar to his heart’s content. 

“ Milk for babes, you know,” said the Rec- 
tor, making his preparations. “ Strong 
meats ” 

“ And strong cigars ; but you’ll find these 
as mild as you please. Here’s a match. 

The Rector sat down with one foot on the 
fender, and puffed awmy steadily, looking 
into the fire ; and his brother at the opposite 
angle of the fender, employed himself sim- 
ilarly. 

“ Fine old soldier, General Lennox,’’ said 
the cleric, at last. “ What stay does he make 
with you ?” 

“ As long as he pleases. Why ?’’ said Sir 
Jekyl. 

“ Only he said something to-night in the 
drawing-room about having to go up to town 
to attend a Board of East India Directors,” 
answered the parson. 

“ Oh, did he?” 

“ And I think he said the day after to- 
morrow. I thought he told you, perhaps.” 

“ Upon my life I can’t say — perhaps he 
did,” said Sir Jekyl, carelessly. “ Lennox is 
a wondeiful fine old fellow, as you say, but a 
little bit slow, you know ; and his going or 
staying would not make very much difference 
to ine.’’ 

“ I thought he told his story pretty well at 
dinner — that haunted room and the cobra, 
you remember,” said the Rector. 

The Baronet grunted an assent, and 
nodded, without removing his cigar. The 
brothers conducted their conversation, not 
looking on one another, but each steadily 
into the grate. 

“ And, apropos of haunted rooms, Lady 
Jane mentioned they are in the green cham- 
ber,” continued the Rector. 

“ Did she ? I forgot — so they are, 1 think,” 
answered the Baronet. 

Here they puffed away in silence for some 
time. 

“You know, Jekyl, about that room? 
Poor Amy, when she was dying, made 
promise — and jmu did promise, you know — 
and she got me to promise to remind you to 
shut it up ; and then, you know, my father 
wished the same,” said the Rector. 

“ Come, Dives, my boy, somebody has 
been poking you up about this. You have 
been hearing from my old mother-in-law, or. 
talking to her, the goose}’’ old shrew !” 

“ Upon my honor !” said the Rector, so- 
lemnly resting the wrist of his cigar-hand 
upon the black silk vest, and motioning his 
cheroot impressively, “ you are quite mis- 
taken. One syllable I have not heard from 
Lady Alice upon the subject, nor indeed, 
upon any other, for two months or more.” 

“ Come, come, Dives, old fellow, you 11 not 


GUY DEYERELL. 


27 


come the inspired preacher over me. Some- 
body’s been at you, and if it was not poor old 
Lady Alice it was stupid old Gwynn. You 
need not deny it — ha ! ha ! ha ! your speak- 
ing countenance proclaims it, my dear boy.” 

“ I’m not thinking of denying it. Old 
Donica Gw^mn did write to me ” said the 
pastor. 

“ Let me see her note ?” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ I threw it into the fire ; but I assure you 
there was nothing in it that would or could 
have vexed you. Kothing, in fact, but an 
appeal to me to urge you to carry out the 
request of poor Amy, and not particularly 
well spelt or written, and certainly not the 
sort of thing I should have liked anyone to 
see but ourselves, so I destroyed it as soon as 
I had read it.” 

“ I’d like to have known wdiat the plague 
could make you come here two days — of 
course I’m glad to see you— two days before 
you intended, and what’s running in your 
mind.” 

“ Nothing in particular — nothing, I assure 
you, but this. I’m certain it will be talked 
about — it will — the women will talk. You’ll 
find there will be something very unplea- 
sant ; take my advice, my dear Jekyl, and 
just do as you promised. My poor father 
wished it, too — in fact, directed it, and — 
and it ought to be done — you know it ought.” 

“ Upon my soul I know no such thing. 
I’m to pull down my house, I suppose, for a 
sentiment ? What the plague harm does the 
room do anybody ? It doesn’t hurt me nor 
you.” 

“ It may hurt you very much, Jekyl.” 

“ I can’t see it ; but if it does, that’s my 
affair,” said Sir Jekyl, sulkily. 

“ But, my dear Jekyl, surely jon ought to 
consider your promise.” 

“ Come, Dives, no preaching. It’s a very 
good trade, I know, and I’ll do all I can for 
you in it ; but I’m no more to be humbugged 
by a sermon than you are. Come ! How 
does the dog I sent you get on ? Have you 
bottled the pipe of port yet, and how is old 
Moulders, as 1 asked you at dinner ? Talk 
of shooting, eating and drinking, and making 
merry, and getting up in your profession — 
by-the-b3^e, the Bishop is to be here in a 
fortnight, so manage to stay and meet him. 
Talk of the port, and the old parson’s death, 
and the tithes small and great, and I’ll hear 
3^011 with respect, for I shall know you are 
speaking of things you understand, and take 
a real interest in ; but pray don’t talk any 
mor-e about that stupid old room, and the 
stuff* and nonsense these 'svomen connect 
with it ; and, once for all, believe me when 
I say I have no notion of making a fool of 
myself by shutting up or pulling down a 
room which we want to use — I’ll do no such : 
tiling,” and Sir Jekyl clenched the declara- 
tion with an oath, and chucking the stump i 
of his cigar in the fire, stood up with his ; 
back to it, and looked down on his clerical < 
Mentor, the very -impersonation of ungodly 
obstinacy. i 

“ I had some more to say, Jekyl, but I i 
fancy yoii don’t care to hear it.” i 


!- “ Not a word of it,” replied the baronet. 

:1 “ That’s enough for me,” said the parson. 

1 with a wave of his hand, like a man who 
- has acquitted himself of a duty. 

’ “ And how soon do you say the Bishop is 

;1 to be here he inquired, after a pause. 

3 “ About ten days, or less — egad ! I for- 

get,” answered Sir Jekyl, still a good deal 
ruffled. 

1 The Rector stood up also, and hummed 
1 something like “ Rule Britarfnia” for a while. 
1 I am afraid he was thinking altogether of 
} himself by this time, and suddenly recollect- 
r ing that he was not in his own room, he 
i wished his brother good-night, and departed. 
) Sir J ekyl wa s vexed. There are few .things 

5 so annoying, when one has made up liis 
mind to a certain course, as to have the un- 
j avowed misgivings and evil auguries of 
one’s own soul aggravated by the vain but 
‘ ominous dissuasions of others. 

“ I wish they’d keep their advice to them- 
selves. What hurry need there be ? Do 
! they want me to blow up the room with old 
Lennox and his wife in it ? I don’t care two- 
: pence about it. It’s a gloomy place.” Sir 

• Jekyl was charging the accidental state of 
. his own spirits upon the aspect of the place, 

• which was really handsome and cheerful 
though antique. 

“ They’re all in a story, the fools ! What 
is it to me ? I don’t care if I never saw it 
, again. They may pull it down after Christ- 
mas, if they like, for me. And Dives, too, 

■ the scamp, talking pulpit. He thinks of 
nothing but side-dishes and money. As 
worldly a dog as there is in England !” 

Jekyl Marlowe could get angry enough 
on occasion, but he was not prone to sour 
tempers and peevish humors. There was, 
however, just now, something to render him 
uncomfortable and irritable, and that was 
that his expected, guests, Mr. Guy Strang- 
way s and M. Yarbarriere had not kept 
tryste. The day appointed for their visit 
had come and gone, and no appearance 
made. In an ordinary case a hundred and 
fifty accidents might account for such a 
miscarriage ; but there was in this the un- 
avowed specialty which excited and sick- 
ened his mind, and haunted his steps and 
his bed with suspicions ; and he fancied he 
could understand a little how Herod felt 
when he mocked of the wise men. 

Next morning’s post-bag brouglit Sir 
Jekyl two letters, one of which relieved, 
and the other rather vexed him, though not 
very profoundly. This latter was from his 
mother-in-law, Lady Alice, in reply to his 
civil note, and much to his surprise, accept- 
ing his invitation to Marlowe. 

“ Cross-grained old woman ! She’s coming, 
for no reason on earth but to vex me. ' It 
shan’t though. I’ll make her most damn- 
ably welcome. We’ll amuse her till she has 
not a leg to stand on ; we’ll take her an ex- 
cursion every second day, and bivouac on 
the side of a mountain, or in the bottom of 
a wet valle3". We’ll put the young ponies 
to the phaeton, and Dutton shall run them 
away with her. I’ll get up theaticals, and 


28 


GUY DEVERELL. 


balls, and concerts ; and I’ll have breakfast 
at nine instead of ten. I’ll entertain her 
with a vengeance,, egad! We’ll see who’ll 
stand it longest.” 

A glance at the foot of the next letter, 
which was a large document, on a bluish 
sheet of letter-paper, showed him what he 
expected, the official autograph of Messi’s. 
Pelter and Crowe ; it was thus expressed — 

“ My dear Sir Jekyl ^Iarlowe, — 

“Pursuant to your’s of the — th, and in 
accordance with the instructions therein 
contained, we have made inquiries, as therein 
directed, in all available quarters, and have 
received answers to our letters, and trust 
that the copies thereof, and the general 
summary of the correspondence, which we 
hope to forward by this evening’s post, will 
prove satisfactory to you. The result seems 
to us clearly to indicate that your informa- 
tion has not been well founded, and that 
there has been no movement in the quarter 
*0 which your favor refers, and that no 
member — at all events no prominent mem- 
ber — of that family is at present in England. 
In further execution of your instructions, as 
conveyed in your favor as above, we have, 
through a reliable channel, learned that 
Messrs. Smith, Rumsey, and Snagg, have 
nothing in the matter of Deverell at present 
. in their office. ISTor has there been, we are 
assured, any correspondence from or on the 
part of any of those clients for the last five 
terms or more. Notwithstanding, there- 
fore, the coincidence of the date of your 
letter vfith the period to which, on a former 
occasion, we invited your attention, as in- 
dicated by the deed of 1809” 

“ What the plague is that ?” interpolated 
Sir Jekyl. “They want me to write and 
ask, and pop it down in the costs and after 
a vain endeavor to recall it, he read the 
passage over again with deliberate emphasis. 

“ Notwithstanding, therefore, the coinci- 
dence of the date of your letter with the 
period to which, on a former occasion, we 
invited your attention, as indicated by the 
deed of 1809, we are clear upon the evidence 
of the letters, copies of which will be before 
you as above by the next post, that there is no 
ground for supposing any unusual activity 
on the part or behalf of the party or parties 
to wliom you have referred. 

“ Awaiting your further directions, 

“I have the honor to remain, 

“ My dear Sir Jekyl Marlowe, 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“ N. Crowe. 

“ For Pelter and Crowe. 

“ Sir J ekyl Marlowe, Bart. 

“ Marlowe, Old Swayton.*’ 

Wlien Sir Jekyl read this he felt all on a 
sudden a dozen years younger. He snapped 
h IS fingers,. and smiled, in spite of himself 
He could hardly bring himself to acknowl- 
edge, even in soliloquy, liow immensely he 
was relieved. The sun shone delightfully : 
and his spirits returned quite brightly. He 
would have liked cricket, to ride a steeple- 


chase— anything that would have breathed 
and worked him well, and given him a fair 
occasion for shouting and cheering. 


CHAPTER XI. 

OLD GRYSTON BRIDGE. 

Very merry was the Baronet at the social 
breakfast-table, and the whole party very gay 
except those few whose natures were sedate 
or melancholic. 

“ A tremendous agreeable man, Sir Jekyl 
— don’t you think so, Jennie?” said Gen- 
eral Lennox to his wife, as he walked her 
slowly along the terrace at the side of the 
house. 

“ I think him intolerably noisy, and some- 
times absolutely vulgar,” answered Lady 
Jane, with a languid disdain, which con- 
veyed alike her estimate of her husband’s 
discernment, and of Sir Jekyl’s merits. 

“ Well, I thought he was agreeable. Some 
of his jokes I think, indeed, had not much 
sense in them. But sometimes I don’t see 
a witty thing as quick as cleverer fellows 
do, and they were all laughing except you ; 
and I don’t think you like him, Jennie.” 

I don’t dislike him. I dare say he’s a 
very worthy soul ; but he gives me a head- 
ache.” 

“ He^s a little bit noisy, maybe. Yes, he 
certainly w,” acquiesced the honest General, 
who, in questions of taste and nice criticism, 
was diffident of his own judgment, and 
leaned to his wife’s. “ But I thought he was 
rather a pleasant fellow. I’m no great 
judge ; but I like to see fellows laughing, and 
that sort of thing. It looks good-humored^- 
don’t you think ?” 

“ I hate good humor,” said Lady Jane. 

The General, not knowing exactly what 
to say next, marched by her side in silence, 
till Lady Jane let go his arm, and sat down 
on the rustic seat wJiich commands so fine a 
view, and, leaning back, eyed the landscape 
with a dreamy inVlolence, as if she was going 
to “ cut ” it. 

The General scanned it with a military 
eye, and his reconnoitring glance discerned, 
coming up the broad walk at his right, their 
host, with pretty Mrs. Maberly on his arm, 
doing the honors plainly very agreeably. 

On seeing the General and Lady Jane, he 
smiled, quickened his pace, and raised his 
hat. 

“ So glad we have found you,” said he. 
“ Charming weather, *isn’t it ? You must 
determine. Lady Jane, wJiat’s to be done to- 
day. There are two things you really ought 
to see — Gryston Bridge and Hazelden Castle. 
I assurq you the great London artists visit 
both for studies. We’ll take our luncheon 
there, it’s such a warm, bright da}^ — that 
is, if you like the plan — and, which do you 
say ?” 

“ My husband always votes for me. What 
does Mrs. Maberly say ?” and Lady Jane 
looked in her face with one of her winning 
I smiles. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


29 


“Yes, wliat does Mrs. Maberly say?” 
echoed the General, gallantly. 

“ So you won't advise V” said the Baronet, 
leaning towards Lady J ane, a little reproach- 
fully. 

“ I won’t advise,” she echoed in her indo- 
lent way. • 

“Which is the best?” inquired Mrs. 
Maberly, gleefully. “ What a charming 
idea !” 

“ For my part, I have a headache, you 
know, Arthur — I told you, dear ; and I shall 
hardly venture a long excursion, I think. 
What do you advise to-day ?” 

“ What do you say. Sir Jekyl ?” 

“So very sorry to hear Lady Jane is suf- 
fering ; but I really think your advice, Gen- 
eral "Lennox — it’s so very fine and mild — 
and I think it might amuse Lady Jane 
and he glanced at the lady, who, however, 
wearing"* her bewitching smile, was con- 
versing with Mrs. Maberly about a sweet 
little white dog, with long ears and a blue 
ribbon, which "had accompanied her walk 
from the house. 

“ Well, dear. Sir Jekyl wants to know. 
What do you say ?” inquired the General. 

“ Oh, pray arrange as you please. I dare 
say I can go. It’s all the same,” answered 
Lady Jane, without raising her eyes from 
silvery little Bijou, on whom she bestowed 
her unwonted smiles and caresses. 

“.You belong to Beatrix, you charming 
little fairy — I’m sure you do ; and is it not 
very wicked to go out with other people 
without leave, you naughty little truant ?” 

“ You must not attack her so. She really 
loves Beatrix ; and though she has come out 
just to take the air with me, I don’t think 
she cares a twopence about me ; and I know 
I don’t about her.” 

“ What a cruel speech I” cried pretty Mrs. 
Maberly, with a laugh that showed her 
exquisite little white teeth. 

“ The fact is cruel— if you will — not the 
speech— for she can’t hear it,” said Sir Jekyl, 
patting Bijou. 

“ So they act love to your face, poor little 
dog, and say what they please of you behind 
your back,” murmured Lady Jane, sooth- 
ingly, to little Bijou, who wagged his tail 
and wriggled to her feet. “Yes, they do, 
poor little dog !” 

“ Well, I shall venture — may I ? I’ll order 
the carriages at one. And we’ll say Gryston 
Bridge,” said Sir Jekyl, hesitating notwith- 
standing, inquiry plainly in his countenance. 

“ Sir Jekyl’s waiting, dear,” said General 
Lennox, a little imperiously. 

“ I really don’t care. Yes^ then,” she said, 
and, getting up, she took the General’s arm 
and walked away, leaving Mrs. Maberly 
and her host to their tete-a-tete. 

Gryston Bridge is one of the prettiest 
scenes in that picturesque part of the coun- 
try. A river slowly winds its silvery way 
through the level base of a beautifully irre- 
gular valley. Ho enclosure breaks the dim- 
pling and undulating sward — for it is the 
common of Gryston — which rises in soft 
pastoral slopes at either side, forming the 


gentle barriers of the valley, which is closed 
in at the further end by a bold and Alpine 
hill, with a base rising purple and dome-like 
from the plain ; and in this perspective the 
vale of Gryston diverges, and the two 
streams, which at its head unite to form the 
slow-flowing current of the Greet, are lost 
to sight. Trees of nature’s planting here 
and there overhang its stream, and others, 
solitarily or in groups, stud the hill-sides 
and the soft green plain. A strange row of 
tall, grey stones, Druidic or monumental, of 
a bygone Cyclopean age, stand up, time- 
worn and mysterious, on a gentle slope, 
with a few bending thorn and birch trees 
beside them, in the near distance ; and in the 
foreground, the steep. Gothic bridge of Gret- 
ford, or Gryston, spans the river, with five tall 
arches, and a loop-hole gatehouse, wliich once 
guarded the pass, now roofless and ruined. 

In this beautiful and sequestered scene 
the party from Marlowe had loitered away 
that charming afternoon. The early sunset 
had been rapidly succeeded by twilight, and 
the moon had surprised them. The servants 
were picking up hampers of plates and 
knives and forks, and getting the horses to 
for the return to Marlowe ; while, in the 
early moonlight a group stood upoq^the 
bridge, overlooking from the battlemcht the 
sweet landscape in its charming light. 

Sir Jekyl could see that Captain Drayton 
was by Beatrix’s side, and concluded, rightly, 

I have no doubt, that his conversation was 
tinted by the tender lights of that romantic 
scenery. 

“ The look back on this old bridge, from 
those Druidic stones there by moonlight is 
considered very fine. It is no distance — 
hardly four hundred steps from this— although 
it looks so misty,” said the Baronet to Lady 
Jane, who leaned on his arm. “ Suppose we 
make a little party, will you venture ?” 

I suppose the lady acquiesced, for Sir Jekyl 
ordered that the carriages should proceed by 
the road, and take them up at the point 
where these Druidic remains stand. 

The party who ventured this little roman- 
tic walk over the grass, were General Len- 
nox, in charge of the mature Miss Blunket 
who loved a frolic with all her girlish heart ; 
Sir Jekyl with Lady Jane upon his arm ; and 
Captain Drayton, who escorted Beatrix. 
Marching gaily, in open column, as the Gen- “ 
eral would have said, they crossed the inter- 
vening hollow, and reached the hillock on 
which stand these ungainly relics of a by- 
gone race ; and up the steep bank they got, 
each couple as best they could. Sir Jekyl 
and Lady Jane, for he knew the ground, by 
an easy path, were first to reach the upper 
platform. 

Sir Jekyl, I dare say, was not very learned 
about the Druids, and I can’t say exactly 
what he was talking about, when on a 
sudden he arrested both his step and his 
sentence, for on one of these great prostrate 
stones which strew that summit, he saw 
standing, not a dozen steps away, well illu- 
minated by the moon, the figure of that very 
Guy Strangways, whom he so wished and 


80 


GUY DEVERELL. 


hated to see — whom he had never beheld 
without such strange sensations, and had not 
expected to see again. 

The young .man took no note of them 
apparently. He certainly did not recognise 
Sir Jekyl, whose position placed his face in 
the shade, while that of Mr. Strangways was 
full in the white light of the moon. 

They had found him almost in the act of 
absconding from his pedestal ; and he was 
gone in a few moments, before the Baronet 
had recovered from his surprise. 

The vivid likeness which he bore to a per- 
son whom the Baronet never wished to 
think of, and the suddenness of his appear- 
ance and his vanishing had impressed him 
with just the same secret alarms and mis- 
givings as when first he saw him ; and the 
serene confidence induced by the letter of 
Messrs. Belter and Crowe was for a moment 
demolished. He dropped Lady Jane’s arm, 
and forgetting his chivalr}^, strode to the 
brow of the hillock, over which the myste- 
rious young man had disappeared. He had 
lost sight of him, but he emerged in a few 
seconds, about fifty yards away, from be- 
hind a screen of thorn, walking swiftly 
toward the road close by, on which stood 
a 'Chaise, sharp in the misty moonlight. 

Just in time to prevent his shouting after 
the figure, now on the point of re-entering 
the vehicle, he recollected and checked him- 
self. Confound the fellows, if they did not 
appreciate his hospitality, should he run 
after them ; or who were they that he should 
care a pin about ? Had he not Belter and 
Crowe’s letter ? And suppose he did over- 
take and engage the young rogue in talk, 
what could he expect but a parcel of polite 
lies. Certainly, under the circumstances, 
pursuit would have been specially undigni- 
fied ; and the Baronet drew himself up on 
the edge of the eminence, and cast a haughty 
half-angry look after the young gentleman, 
who was now stepping into the carriage; 
and suddenly he recollected how very ill he 
had treated Lady Jane, and he hastened to 
rejoin her. 

But Sir Jekyl, in that very short interval, 
had lost something of his spirits. The sight 
of that young man had gone far to undo the 
tranquilising effect of his attorney’s letter. 
He would not have cared had this un- 
changed phantom of the past and his hoary 
mentor been in England, provided it were at 
a distance. But here they were, on the con- 
fines of his property, withui a short drive of 
Marlowe, yet affecting to forget his invita- 
tion, his house, and himself, and detected 
prowling in its vicinity like spies or poachers 
by moonlight. Was there not something in- 
sidious in this ? It was not for nothing that 
so well-bred a person as that young man 
thus trampled on all the rules of courtesy for 
the sake of maintaining his incognito, and 
avoiding the obligations of hospitality. 

So reasoned Sir Jekyl Marlowe, and felt 
hiself rapidly relapsing into that dreamy and 
intense uneasiness, from which for a few 
hours he had been relieved. 

“ xV thousand apologies, Lady Jane,” cried 


he, as he ran back and proffered his arm 
again. “ I was afraid that fellow might be 
one of a gang — a very dangerous lot of 
rogues— poachers, I believe. There were 
people robbed here about a year ago, and I 
quite forgot when I asked 5X)u to come. I 
should • never have forgiven myself — so 
selfishly forgetful — never had you been frigh- 
tened.” 

Sir Jekyl could, of course, tell fibs, espe- 
cially by way of apology, as plausibly as 
other men of the world. He had here 
turned a negligence skillfully into a gal- 
lantry, and I suppose the lady forgave 
him. 

The carriages had now arrived at the bend 
of this pretty road ; and our Marlowe friends 
got in, and the whole cortege swept away 
merrily towards that old mansion. Sir 
Jekyl had been, with an effort, very livel}^ 
all the way home, and assisted Lady Jane to 
the ground, smiling, and had a joke for Gen- 
eral Lennox as he followed, and a very 
merry party mustered in the hall, prattling, 
laughing, and lighting their candles, to run 
up-stairs and dress for a late dinner. 


CHABTER XII. 

THE STRANGERS APPEAR AGAIN. 

Sir Jekyl was the last of the party in the 
hall ; and the last joke and laugh had died 
away on the lobby above him, and away fled 
his smiles like the liveries and brilliants of 
Cinderella to the region of illusions, and 
black care laid her hand on his shoulder and 
stood by him. 

The bland butler, with a grave bow, ac 
costed him in mild accents — 

“The two gentlemen, sir, as you spoke 
of to Mrs. Sinnott, has arrived about five 
minutes before you, sir ; and she has, please 
sir, followed your directions, and had them 
put in the rooms in the front, as you ordered, 
sir, should be kept for them, before Mrs. 
Gwynn left.” 

W/ial two gentlemen?” demanded Sir 
Jekyl, with a thrill. “ Mr. Strangways and 
M. Varbarriere ?” 

“ Them, sir, I think, is the names — Strang- 
ways, leastways, I am sure on, ’aving lived, 
when young, with a branch of the Earl of 
Dilbury’s family, if you please, sir — which 
Strangways is the name.” 

“ A good-looking young gentleman, tall 
and slight, eh ?” 

“Yes, sir; and a heavy gentleman h ac- 
companies him — something in years — a far- 
riner, as I suppose, and speaking French or 
Jarmin ; leastways, it is not Fnglish.” 

“ Dinner in twenty minutes,” said Sir 
Jekyl, with the decision of the Duke of Wel- 
lington in action ; and away he strode to his 
dressing-room in the back-settlements, with a 
quick step and a thoughtful face. 

“ I shan’t want you, Tomlinson, you need 
not stay,” said he to his man ; but' before he 
let him go, he asked carelessly a word or two 


GUY DEYERELL. 


31 


about the new guests, and learned, in addi- 
tion to what he already knew, notliing but 
that they had brought a servant with them. 

So much the worse,” thought Sir Jekyl ; 
“ those confounded fellows hear everything, 
and poke their noses everywhere, t some- 
times think that rascal Tomlinson pries 
about here.” 

And the Baronet, half-dressed, opened 
the door of his study, as he called it, at the 
further end of his homely bed-chamber, and 
looked round. 

it is or might be a comfortable room, of 
some five-and-twenly feet square, surrounded 
by book-shelves, as homely as the style of 
bed-room, stored with volumes of the “ An- 
nual Register,” “ Gentleman’s Magazine,” 
and “ Universal History” sort — long rows in 
dingy gilding — moved up here when the old 
library of Marlowe was broken up. The 
room had a dusty air of repose about it. A 
few faded pieces of old-fashioned furniture, 
which had probably been quartered here in 
genteel retirement, long ago, when the prin- 
cipal sitting-rooms were undergoing a more 
modern decoration. 

Here Sir Jekyl stood with a sudden look 
of dejection, and stared listlessly round on 
the compact wall of books that surrounded 
him, except for the one door-case, that 
through which he had entered, and the two 
windows, on all sides. Sir Jekyl was in a 
sort of collapse of spirits. He stepped 
dreamily to the far shelf and took down a 
volume of .Old Bailey Reports, and read the 
back of it several times, then looked round 
once more dejectedly, and blew the top of 
the volume, and wondered at the quantity 
of dust there, and replacing it, heaved a 
dee]» sigh. Dust and death are old associa- 
tions, and his thoughts were running in a 
gloomy channel. 

“ Is it worth all this ? ” he thought. “ I’m 
growing tired of it — utterly. I’m half 
sorry I came here ; perhaps they are right. 
It might be a devilish good thing for me if 
this rubbishy old house were burnt to the 
ground— and I in it, by Jove! “Out, out, 
brief candle!” What’s thlt Shakespeare 
speech “ A tale told by an idiot — a play 
played by an idiot ” — egad ! I don’t know 
why I do half the things I do.” 

When he looked in the glass he did not 
like the reflection. 

“ Down in the mouth — hang it I this will 
never do,” and he shook his curls, and 
smirked, and thought of the ladies, and 
bustled away over his toilet ; and when it 
was completed, as he fixed in his je^velled 
wrist-buttons, tlie cold air and shadow of 
his good or evil angel’s win" crossed him 
again, and he sighed. Capricious were his 
moods. Our wisdom is so frivolous, and 
our frivolities so sad. Is there time here to 
think out anything completely ? Is it pos- 
sible to hold by our conclusions, eveh to 
remember them long? And this trifling 
and suffering are the woof and the warp of 
an eternal robe — wedding garment, let us 
hope — maybe winding-sheet, or — toga mo- 
lesta. 


Sir Jekyl, notwithstanding his somewhat 
interrupted toilet, was in the drawing-room 
before many of his guests had assembled. 
He hesitated for a moment at the door, and 
turned about with a sickening thrill, and 
walked to the table in the outer hall, or 
vestibule, where the postbag lay. He liad 
no object in this countermarch, but to post- 
pone for a second or two the meeting with 
the gentlemen whom, with, as he sometimes 
fancied, very questionable prudence, he had 
invited under his roof. 

And now he entered, frank, gay, smiling. 
His eyes did not search, they were, as it 
were, smitten instantaneously with a sense 
of pain, by the image of the young man, so 
handsome, so peculiar, sad, and noble, the 
sight of whom had so moved him. He was 
conversing with old Colonel Doocey, at the 
further side of the fireplace. In another 
moment Sir Jekyl was before him, his hand 
very kindly locked in his. 

“ Very happy to see you here, Mr. Strang- 
ways.” 

“ I am very much honored. Sir Jekyl 
Marlowe,” returned the young gentleman, 
in that low sweet tone which he also hated. 
“ I have many apologies to make. We have 
arrived two days later than your note ap- 
pointed ; but an accident ” 

“ Pray not a word — your appearance here 
is the best compensation you can make 
me. Your friend. Monsieur Varbarriere, I 
hope ” 

“ My uncle — yes ; he, too, has the honor. 
Will you permit me to present him ? Mon- 
sieur Varbarriere,” said the young man, pre- 
senting his relative. 

A gentleman at this summons turned sud- 
denly from General Lennox, with whom he 
had been talking ; a high-shouldered, portly 
man, taller a good deal when you approaclied 
him than he looked at first ; his hair, “ all 
silvered,” brushed up like Louis Phillippe’s, 
conically from his forehead ; grey, heavily 
projecting eyebrows, long untrimmed mous- 
tache and beard ; altogether a head and flice 
which seemed to indicate that combination 
of. strong sense and sensuality which we see 
in some of the medals of Roman Emperors ; 
a forehead projecting at the brows, and keen 
dark eyes in shadow, observing all things 
from under their grizzled pent-house ; these 
points, and a hooked nose, and a certain 
weight and solemnity of countenance, gave 
to the large and rather pallid aspect, present- 
ed suddenly to the Baronet, something as we 
have said, of the character of an old magician. 
Voluminous plaited black trousers, slanting 
in to the foot, foreshadowed the peg-top of 
more recent date ; a loose and long black 
velvet waistcoat, with more gold chain and 
jewellery generally than Englishmen are ac- 
customed to w'ear, and a wide and clumsy 
black coat, added to the broad and thick-S( t 
character of his figure. 

As Sir Jekyl made his complimentary 
speech to this gentleman, he saw that his 
steady and shrewd gaze was attentively con- 
sidering him in a way that a little tried his 
patience ; and when the stfanger spoke it 


82 


GUY DEYERELL. 


was in French, and in that peculiar metallic 
diapason which we sometimes hear among 
the Hebrew' community, and which brings 
the nasals of that tongue into sonorous and 
rather ugly relief. 

“ England is, I dare say, quite new to you. 
Monsieur Yarbarriere ?” inquired Sir Jekyl. 

“ I have seen it a very long time ago, and 
admire your so fine country very much,” 
replied the pallid and bearded sage, speaking 
in French still, and in those bell-like tones 
which rang and buzzed unpleasantly in the 
ear. 

“ You find us the same foggy and tasteless 
islanders as before,” said the host. “ In art, 
indeed, we have made an advance ; tliere^ I 
think, w^e have capabilities, but we are as a 
people totally deficient in that fine decorative 
sense wiiich expresses itself so gracefully and 
universally in your charming part of the 
world.” 

When Sir Jekyl talked of France, he was 
generally thinking of Paris. 

“ We have our barbarous regions, as you 
have : our vineyards are a dull sight after all, 
and our forest trees you, with your grand 
timber, would use for broom-sticks.” 

“ But your capital ; wdiy every time one 
looks out at the window it is a fillip to one’s 
spirits. To me, preferring France so infinite- 
ly, as I do,” said Sir Jekyl, replying in his 
guest’s language, “ it appears a mystery why 
any Frenchman, who can help it, ever visits 
our dismal region.” 

The enchanter here shrugge<l slowly, with 
a solemn smile. 

“Ho wonder our actions are mysterious 
to others, since they are so often so to our- 
selves.” 

“ You are best acquainted with the south 
of France ?” said Sir Jekyl, wdthout any data 
for such an assumption, and saying the re- 
verse of what he suspected. 

“Yery w'ell wdth the south; pretty well, 
indeed, with most parts.” 

Just at this moment Mr. Ridley’s bland 
and aw’ful tones informed the company that 
dinner was on the table, and Sir Jekyl has- 
tened to afibrd to Lady Blunket the support 
of his vigorous arm into the parlor. 

It ought to have been given to Lady Jane ; 
but the Blunket was a huffy old woman, and, 
on the score of a very decided seniority, was 
indulged. 

Lady Blunket was not very interesting, 
and Avas of the alderman’s opinion, that con- 
versation prevents one’s tasting the green 
fat ; Sir Jekyl had, therefore, time, with light 
and careless glances, to see pretty Avell, from 
time to time, what was going on among his 
guests. Monsieur Yarbarriere had begun to 
interest him more than Mr. Guy Strangways, 
and his eye oftener reviewed that ponderous 
and solemn face and form than any other at 
the table. It seemed that he liked his dinner, 
and attended to his occupation. But though 
taciturn, his shrewd eyes glanced from time 
to time on the host and his guests with an 
air of reserved observation that showed his 
mind was anything but sluggish during the 
process. He looked Avonderfully like some 


of those enehanters Avhom w'e have seen in 
illustrations of Don Quixote. 

“ A deep fellow,” he thought, “ an influen- 
tial felloAV. That gentleman knows what 
he’s about; that young felloAV is in his 
hands.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

m THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

Sir Jekyl heard snatches of conversation, 
sometimes here, sometimes there. 

Guy Strangways was talking to Beatrix, 
and the Baronet heard him say, smiling — 

“ But you don’t, I’m sure, believe in the 
elixir of life; you only mean to mystify us.” 
He was looking more than ever— identical 
with that other person, whom it was not 
pleasant to Sir Jekyl to be reminded of— 
horribly like, in this white waxlight splen- 
dor. 

“But there’s another process, my uncle 
Monsieur Yarbarriere, says by slow refriger- 
ation : you are first put to sleep, and in that 
state frozen ; and once frozen, without having 
suffered death, you may be kept in a state of 
suspended life for twenty or thirty years, 
neither conscious, nor groiving old; arrested 
precisely at the point of your existence at 
which the process was applied, and at tlie 
same point restored again Avhenever for any 
purpose it may be expedient to recall you to 
consciousness and activity.” 

One of those restless, searching glances 
which the solemn, portly old gentleman in 
black directed, from time to time, as he in- 
dulged his traciturn gulosity, lighted on the 
Baronet at this moment, and Sir Jekyl felt 
that they exchanged an unintentional glance 
of significance. Each averted his quickly ; 
and Sir Jekyl, with one of his chuckles, for 
the sake merely of saying something, re- 
marked — 

“ I don’t see how you can restore people 
to life by freezing them.” 

“ He did not , speak, I think, of restoring 
life— did you, Guy?” said the bell-toned 
diapason of the old gentleman, speaking 
his nasal French. 

“ Oh, no— suspending merely,” answered 
the young man. 

“ To restore life, you must have recourse, 

I fancy, to a higher process,” continued the 
sage, Avith an ironical gravity, and his eye 
this time fixed steadily on Sir Jekyl’s; 

“ and I could conceive none more embarras- 
sing to the human race, undei certain cir- 
cumstances'^^ and he shrugged slowly and 
shook his head. 

“ Hnw delightful ! — no more death !” ex- 
claimed enthusiastic Miss Blunket. 

“ Embarrassing, of course, I mean, to 
cert*ain of the survivors.” 

This old gentleman was hitting his ten- 
derest points rather hard and often. Was 
it by chance or design ? Who was he ? 

So thought the Baronet as he smiled and 
nodded. 

* Do you know who that fat old personage 


GUY DEVERELL. 


wlio dresses like an undertaker and looks 
like a Jew ?” asked Captain Drayton of 
Beatrix. 

“ I tliink lie is a relative of Mr. Strang- 
ways.” 

“ And who is Mr. Strangways ? ” 

“ He’s at my right, next me,” answered she 
in a low tone, not liking the very clear and 
distinct key in which the question was put. 

But Captain Drayton was not easily dis- 
concerted, being a young gentleman of a hold 
and rather impertinent temperament, and he 
continued leaning back in his chair and look- 
ing dreamily, into his hock-glass. 

“ Not a friend of yours, is he V” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ Really — not a friend. You’re quite cer- 
tain V” 

“Perfectly. We never saw either — that 
is, papa met them at some posting place on 
his way from London, and invited them ; 
but I think he knows nothing more.” 

“ Well, I did not like to say till I knew, but 
I think him — the old fellow — I have not seen 
the 3^oung man — a most vulgar-looking old 
person. He’s a wine-jobber, or manager of a 
factory, or something. You never sa^v — I 
know Paris by heart — 3^011 never saw such a 
thing in gentlemanly societ3^ there.” 

And the 3"0ung lady heard him say, sotio 
wee, “ Brute !” haughtily to himself, as an in- 
terjection, while he^just raised the finger-tips 
of the hand which rested on the table, and 
let them descend again on the snowy napery. 
The subject deserved no more troublesome 
gesture. 

“And where is the young gentleman?” 
asked Captain Drayton, after a little interval. 
Beatrix told him again. 

“ Oh ! That's he ! Isn’t his French very 
bad — did it strike you ? Bad accent — I can 
tell in a moment. That’s not an accent one 
hears anywhere.” 

Oddly enough. Sir Jekyl at the same time, 
with such slight interruptions as his agree- 
able attentions to Lady Blunket imposed, 
was, in the indistinct way in which such dis- 
cussions are mentally pursued, observing 
upon the peculiarities of his hvo new guests, 
and did not judge them amiss. 

The elder was odd, take him for Tvhat coun- ^ 
try you pleased. Bearded like a German, 
speaking good French, with a good accent, 
but in the loud full tones of a Spaniard, and 
with a quality of voice wiiich resounds in 
the synagogue, and a quietude of demeanor 
much more English than continental. His 
dress, such as I have described it, fine in ma- 
terial, but negligent and easy, though odd. 
Reserved and silent he was, a little sinister 
perhaps, but his bearing unconstrained and 
gracious wiien he spoke. There was, in- 
deed, that odd, w^atchful glance from under 
his heavy eyebrows, winch, however, had 
nothing sly, only observant, in it. Again he 
thought, ‘ Who could he be ?’ On the whole. 
Sir Jekyl was in no wise disposed to pro- 
nounce upon him as Captain Drayton was 
doing a little w^ay down the table ; nor yet 
upon Guy Strangways, whom he thought, on 
the contrar3’', an elegant young man, accord- 1 
3 


33 

ing to French notions of the gentlemanly, and 
he knew the French people a good deal bet- 
ter than the youthful Captain did. 

The principal drawing-room of Marlow^e is 
a very large apartment, and people can talk 
of one another in it without any risk of de- 
tection. 

“ Well, Lady Jane,” said the Baronet, sit- 
ting down before that handsome woman, and 
her husband the General, so as to interrupt 
a conjugal tete a-tete, probably a particularly 
affectionate one, for he w^as to leave for 
London next day. “ I saw" you converse with 
Monsieur Yarbarriere. What do you think 
of him ?” 

“ I don’t think I conversed with him— did 
I ? He talked to me ; but 1 really did not 
take the trouble to think about him.” 

The General laughed triumphantly, and 
glanced over his shoulder at the Baronet. 
He liked his wife’s contempt for the rest of 
the sex, and her occasional — only occasional 
— enthusiasm for him. 

“Now you are much too clever. Lady 
Jane, to be let off so. I really want to know 
something about him wiiich I don’t at pre- 
sent ; and if any one can help me to a wise 
conjecture, you, I am certain, can.” 

“ And don’t you really know wiio he is ? ’ 
inquired General Lennox, with a haughty 
military surprise. 

“ Upon my honor, I have not the hiintest 
idea,” answ^ered Jekyl. “ He may be a cook 
or a rabbi, for anything I can tell.” 

The General’s w"hite eyebrows went some 
wrinkles up the slanting ascent of his pink 
forehead, and he plainly looked his amaze- 
ment that Lady Jane should have been sub- 
jected at Marlowe to the risk of being ac- 
costed on equal terms by a cook or a rabbi. 
His lips screw^ed themselves unconsciously 
into a small o, and his eyes went in search 
of the masquerading menial. 

“ W e had a cook,” said the General, still 
^eing M. Yarbarriere, “ at Futtychur, a 
French fellow, fat like that, but shorter— 
a capital cook, by Jove ! and a very gentle- 
manly man. He w"ore a white cap, and he 
had a very good way of stewing tomatos and 
turkeys, I think it was, and— yes it was— and 
a monstrous gentlemanlike fellow he was; 
rather too expensive though; he cost us a 
great deal,” and the General wunked slvly. 

“ I had to speak to him once or twice. 'But 
an uncommon gentlemanlike man.” 

“ He’s not a cook, my dear. He may be a 
banker, perhaps,” said Lady Jane, languidly. 

“ You have exactly hit my idea,” said Sir 
J ekyl. “ It was his knowing all about French 
banking. General, when you mentioned that 
trick that w"as played you on the Bourse.” 

At this moment the massive form and "face 
of M. Yarbarriere was seen approaching wdth 
Beatrix by his side. They w^ere conversing, 
but the little group we have just been listen- 
ing to dropped the discussion of M. Yarbar- 
riere, and the Baronet said that he hoped 
General Lennox would have a fine day foi 
his journey, and that the moon looked par- 
ticularly bright and clear. 

“ I w"ant to show Monsieur Yarbarriere the 


34 


GUY DEVERELL. 


drawings of the house, papa ; they are in 
this cabinet. He admires the architecture 
very much.” 

The large enchanter in black made a so- 
lemn bow of acquiescence here, but said 
nothing ; and Beatrix took from its nook a 
handsome red leather portfolio, on the side 
of which, in tall golden letters, were the 
words — 

VIEWS AND ELEVATIONS 

OF 

MARLOWE MANOR HOUSE 
PAULO ABRUZZI, 

AKCHITECT. 

1711. 

“ Capital drawing, I am told. * He was a 
young man of great promise,” said Sir Jekyl, 
in French. “ But the style is quite English, 
and, I fear, will hardly interest an eye accus- 
tomed to the more graceful contour of south- 
ern continental architecture.” 

“ Your English style interests me very 
much. It is singular, and suggests hospital- 
ity, enjoyment, and mystery.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was turning over 
these tinted drawings carefully. 

“ Is not that very true, papa — hospitality, 
enjojnnent, mystery ?” repeated Beatrix. “ I 
think that faint character of mystery is so 
pleasant. W e have a mysterious room here.” 
She had turned to M. Yarbarriere, 

“Oh, a dozen,” interrupted Sir Jekyl. 
“ No end of ghosts and devils, ymu know. 
But I really think you excel us in that arti- 
cle. I resided for five weeks in a haunted 
house once, near Havre, and the stories were 
capital, and there were some very good noises 
too. We must get Dives to tell it by-and-by ; 
he was younger than I, and more frightened.” 

“ And Mademoiselle says you have a 
haunted apartment here,” said the ponderous 
foreigner with the high forehead and pro- 
jecting brows. 

“ Yes, of course. We are very much' 
haunted. There is hardly a crooked passage 
or a dark room that has not a story,” said 
Sir Jekyl. “ Beatrix, why don’t you sing us 
a song, by-the-by ?” 

“May I beg one other favor first, before 
the crowning one of the song V” said M. 
Yarbarriere, with an imposing playfulness. 
“ Mademoiselle, I am sure, tells a stoiy w^ell. 
Which, I entreat, is the particular room you 
speak of?” 

“We call it the green chamber,’^ said Bea- 
trix. 

^ “The green chamber — what a romantic 
title !” exclaimed the large gentleman in 
black, graciously, “ and where is it situated ?” 
he pursued. 

“We must really put you into it,” said Sir 
Jekyl. 

“ Nothing I should like so well,” he observ- 
ed, with a bow, 

“ That is, of course, whenever it is deserted. 
You have not been plagued with apparitions. 
General ? Even Lady Jane — and there are 
no ghost-seers like ladies, I’ve observed— has 
failed to report anything horrible.” 

His hand lay on the arm of her chair, and 


as he spoke, for a moment pressed hers, which 
not choosing to permit such accidents, she 
turning carelessly and haughtily toward the 
other speakers, slipped away. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

MUSIC. 

“ And pray. Mademoiselle Marlowe, in 
what part of the house is this so wonderful 
room situated ?” persisted the grave and rev- 
erend signor. 

“ Quite out of the question to describe to 
one who does not already know the house,” 
interposed Sir Jekyl. “ It is next the six- 
sided dressing-room, which opens from the 
hatchment gallery — that is its exact situation ; 
and I’m afraid I have failed to convey it,” 
said Sir Jekyl, with one of his playful 
chuckles. 

The Druidic-looking Frenchman shrugged 
and lifted his fingers with a piteous expres- 
sion of perplexity, and shook his head. 

“ Is there not among these drawings a view 
of the side of the house where this room 
lies ?” he inquired. 

“ I was looking it out,” said Beatrix. 

“ I’ll find it, Trixie. Go you and sing us a 
song,” said the Baronet. 

“ I’ve got them both, papa. Now, Mon- 
sieur Yarbarriere, here they are. This is the 
front view — this is the side.” 

“ I am very much obliged,” said Monsieur, 
examining the drawing curiously. “ The room 
recedes. The large bow-window belongs to 
it. Is it not so ? — wide room ? — how long ? 
You see I want to understand everything. — 
Ah ! yes, here is the side view. It projects 
from the side of the older building, I see. — 
How charming ! And this is the work of 
the Italian artist ? This style is quite novel 
—a mixture partly Florentine— really very 
elegant. Did he build anything more here ?” 

“ Yes, a very fine row of stables, and a tem- 
ple in the grounds,” said Sir Jekyl. “ You 
shall see them to-morrow.” 

“ The chamber green. Yes, very clever, 
very pretty and having eyed them over 
again carefully, he said, laying them down— 

“ A curious as well as a handsome old 
house, no doubt. Ah ! very curious, I dare 
say,” said the sage Monsieur Yarbarriere. — 

Are there here the ground plans ?” 

“We have them somewhere, I fancy, among 
the title-deeds, but none here,” said Sir Jekyl, 
a little stiffly, as if it struck him that his vis- 
itor’s curiosity was a trifle less ceremonious 
than, all things considered, it might be. 

Pretty Beatrix was singing now to her own 
accompaniment ; and Captain Drayton, twist- 
ing the end of his light moustache, stood 
haughtily by her side. The music in his ear 
was but a half-heard noise. Indeed, although 
he had sat out operas innumerable, like other 
young gentlemen, who would sit out as many 
hours of a knife-grinder’s performance, or of 
a railway whistle, if it were the fashion, had 
but an imperfect recollection of the airs he 
had paid so handsomely to hear, and was no 
authority on music of any sort. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


Kow Beatrix was pretty— more than pret- 
ty. Some people called her lovely. She 
sang in that rich and plaintive contralto — so 
rare and so inexplicable moving — the famous 
“ Come Gentil,” from Don Pasquale. When 
she ceased, the gentleman at her other side, 
Guy Strang ways, sighed — not a complimen- 
tary — a i-eal sigh. 

“ That is a wonderful song, the very spirit 
of a serenade. Such distance — such gaiety 
—such sadness. Your Irish poet, Thomas 
Moore, compares some spiritual music or 
kind voice to sunshine spoken. This is moon- 
light — moonlight sung^ and so sung that I 
could dream away half a life in listening, 
and yet sigh when it ceases.” 

Mr. Guy Strangway’s strange, dark eyes 
looked full on her, as with an admiring en- 
thusiasm he said these words. 

The young lady smiled, looked up for a mo- 
ment from the music-stool, and then with 
lowered eyes again, and that smile of gratifi- 
cation which is so beautiful in a lovely girl’s 
face. 

“ It is quite charming, really. I’m no mu- 
sician, you know ; but I enjoy good music 
extravagantly, especially singing,” said Cap- 
tain Drayton. “ I don’t aspire to talk senti- 
ment and that kind of poetry.” He was, 
perhaps, near using a stronger term — “a mere 
John Bull ; but it es, honestly, charming.” 

He had his glass in his eye, and turned 
back the leaf of the song to the*title-page. 

“ Don Pasquale — yes. Sweet opera that. 
How often I have listened to Mario in it ! 
But never, Miss Marlowe, with more real 

leasure than to the charming performance 

have just heard.” 

Captain Drayton was not making his com- 
pliment well, and felt it somehow. It was 
clumsy — it was dull — it was meant to over- 
ride the tribute offered by Guy Strangways, 
whose presence he chose, in modern phrase, 
to ignore ; and yet he felt that he had, as he 
would have expressed it, rather “ put his foot 
in it and, with just a little flush in his 
cheek and rather angry eyes, he stooped over 
the piano and read the Italian words half 
aloud. 

“ By-the-by,” he said, suddenly recollecting 
a topic, “ what a sweet scene that is of Grys- 
ton Bridge ? Have you never been to see it 
before?” 

“ Once since we came, we rode there, papa 
and I,” answered Miss Marlowe. “ It looked 
particularly well this evening— quite beauti- 
ful in the moonlight.” 

“Is it possible. Miss Marlowe, that you 
were there this evening ? I and my uncle 
stopped on our way here to admire the ex- 
quisite effect of the steep old bridge, with a 
wonderful foreground ofdDruidic monuments, 
as they seemed to me.” 

“ Does your father preserve that river ?” 
asked Captain Drayton, coolly pretermitting 
Mr. Strangways altogether. 

“ I really don’t know,” she replied, in a 
slight and hurried w^ay that nettled the Cap- 
tain ; and, turning to Guy Strangways, she 
said, “Did you see it from, the bridge ?” 

“ No, Mademoiselle ; from the mound in 


35 

which those curious stones are raised,” an- 
swered Mr. Strangways. 

Captain Dayton felt that Miss Marlowe’s 
continuing to talk to Mr. Strangways, while 
he was present and willing to converse, was 
extremely offensive, choosing to entertain a 
low opinion in all respects of that person. 
He stooped a little forward, and stared at the 
stranger with that ill-bred gaze of insolent 
surprise which is the peculiar weapon of 
Englishmen, and which very distinctly ex- 
presses, “ who the devil are you ?” 

Perhaps it was fortunate for the harmony 
of the party that just at this moment, and 
before Captain Drayton could say anything 
specially impertinent. Sir Jekyl touched Dray- 
ton on the shoulder, saying — 

“ Are you for whist V” 

“ No, thanks — I’m no player.” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Strangways — I did not see— do 
you play ?” 

Mr. Strangways smiled, bowed, and shook 
his head. 

“ Drayton, did I present you to Mr. Strang- 
ways ?” and the Baronet made the two young 
gentlemen techincally known to one another 
— though, of course, each knew the other al- 
ready. 

They bowed rather low, and a little haugh- 
tily, neither smiling. I suppose Sir Jekyl 
saw something a little dangerous in the 
countenance of one at least of the gentlemen 
as he approached, and chose to remind them, 
in that agreeable way, that he was present, 
and wished them acquainted, and of course 
friendly. 

He had now secured old Colonel Doocey 
to make up his party — the sober old French- 
man and Sir Paul Blunket making the sup- 
plementary two ; and before they had taken 
their chairs round the card table. Captain 
Drayton said, with a kind of inclination 
rather insolent than polite — 

“ You are of the Dilbury family, of course ? 
I never knew a Strangways yet — I mean, of 
course, a Strangways such as one would be 
likely to meet, you know — w^ho was not.” 

“You know one now, sir ; for I am not 
connected ever so remotely with that distin- 

§ uished family. My family are quite another 
trangwaj^s.” 

“ No doubt quite as respectable,” said 
Captain Drayton, with a bow, a look, and a 
tone that would have passed for deferential 
with many ; but which, nevertheless, had the 
subtle flavor of an irony in it. 

“ Perhaps more so ; my ancestors are the 
Strangways of Lynton ; you are aware they 
had a peerage down to the reign of George II.” 

Captain Drayton was not as deep as so 
fashionable and moneyed a man ought to 
have been in extinct peerages, and therefore 
he made a little short supercilious bow, and 
no answer. He looked drowsily toward the 
ceiling, and then — 

“ The Strangways of Lynton are on the 
Continent, or something — one does not hear 
of them,” said Captain Drayton, sliditly but 
grandly. “We are the Draytons of Drayton 
Forest, in the same county.” 

“ Oh ! then my uncle is misinformed. He 


36 


GUY DEVERELL. 


thought that family ms extinct, and lament- 
ed over it when Tve saw the house and place 
at a distance.” 

Captain Drayton colored a little above his 
light .colored moustache. He was no Dray- 
ton, but a remotely collateral Smithers, with 
a queen’s letter constituting him a Drayton. 

“ Avr — yes — it is a fine old place— quite 
misinformed. I can show you our descent 
if you wish it.” 

If Drayton had collected his ideas a little 
first he w^ouid not have made this condescen- 
sion. 

“ Your descent is high and pure — 'oery 
high, I assume — mine is only respectable — 
presentable, as you say, but by no means so 
liigh as to w^'arrant my inquiring into that 
of other people.” 

“ Inquiry ! of course. I did not say in- 
quiry,” and with an effort Captain Drayton 
almost laughed. 

“ Hoihing more dull,” acquiesced Mr. 
Strangways, slightly. 

Both gentlemen paused — each seemed to 
expect something from the other — each 
seemed rather angrily listening for it. The 
ostensible attack had all been on the part of 
the gallant Captain, who certainly had not 
been particularly well bred. The Captain, 
nevertheless, felt that Mr, Strangways knew 
perfectly all about Smithers, and that Smith- 
ers really had not one drop of the Drayton 
blood in his veins ; and he felt in the sore 
and secret centre of his soul that the polished, 
handsome young gentleman, so easy, so 
graceful, with that suspicion of a foreign ac- 
cent and of foreign gesture, had the best of 
the unavowed battle. He had never spoken 
a word or looked a look in the course of this 
little dialogue wdiich could have suggested 
an idea of altercation, or any kind of mutual 
unpleasantness, to the beautiful young girl ; 
who, with one hand on the keys of the piano, 
touched them so lightly with her fingers, as 
to call forth a dream of an air rather than 
the air itself. 

To her Gu}^ Strangways turned, with his 
peculiar smile — so winning, yet so deep— an 
enigmatic smile that had in it a latent sad- 
ness and fierceness, and by its very ambigu- 
ousness interested one.. 

“ I upbraid myself for losing these precious 
moments while you sit here, and might, per- 
haps, be persuaded to charm us with another 
song.” 

. So she w’as persuaded ; Captain Drayton 
still keeping guard, and applauding, though 
wdth no special good will toward the unof- 
fending stranger. 

The party broke up early. The ladies 
trooped to their bedroom candles and ascend- 
ed the great staircase, chatting harmoni- 
ously, and bidding mutual sweet goodnights, 
as in succession they reached their doors. 
The gentlemen, having sat for awhile lazily 
about the fire, or gathered round the tray 
whereon stood sherry and seltzer water, re- 
paired also to the cluster of bed-chamber can- 
dlesticks without, and helped themselves, 
talki^ together in like sociable manner. 

“ Would you like to come to my room and 


have a cigar. Monsieur Varbarriere?” asked 
the Baronet in French. 

Monsieur was much obliged, and bowed 
very suavely, but declined. 

“ And you, Mr. Strangways?” 

He also, with many thanks, a smile and a 
bow, declined. 

“ My quarters are quite out of reach of the 
inhabited part of the house — not very far 
from two hundred feet from this spot, by 
Jove! right in the rear. You must really 
come to me there some night; you’ll be 
amused at my deal furniture and rustic bar- 
barism ; we often make a party there and 
smoke for half an hour.” 

So, as they were not to be persuaded, the 
Baronet hospitably accompanied them to 
their rooms, at the common dressing-room 
door, of which stood little Jacque Duval with 
his thin, bronzed face, candle in hand, bowl- 
ing, to receive his master. 


CHAPTER XV. 

M. VARBARRIERE CONVERSES WITH HIS 
NEPHEW. 

Here then Sir Jekyl bid them good night, 
and descended the great staircase, and navi- 
gated the long line of passage to the back 
stairs leading up to his own homely apart- 
ment. 

The elder man nodded to Jacque, and 
moved the tips of his fingers toward the door 
— a silent intimation which the adroit valet 
perfectly understood ; so, with a cheerful bow, 
he withdrew. 

There was a gay little spluttering fire in 
the grate, which the sharpness of the night 
made very pleasant. The clumsy door was 
shut, and the room had an air of comfortable 
secresy which invited a talk. 

It was not to come, however, without pre- 
paration. He drew a chair before the fire, 
and sat down solemnly, taking a gigantic 
cigar from his case, and moistening it dili- 
gently between his lips before lighting it. 
Then he pointed to a chair beside the hearth, 
and presented his cigar-case to his young 
companion, wdio being well versed in his 
elder’s ways, helped himself, and having, like 
him, foreign notions about smoking, had of 
course no remorse about a cigar or two in 
their present quarters. 

Up the chimney chiefly whisked the nar- 
cotic smoke. Over the ponderous features 
and knotted forehead of the sage flushed the 
uncertain light of the fire, revealing all the 
crows’ feet — all the lines which years, 
thought, passion or suffering had traced on 
that large, sombre, and somewdiat cadave- 
rous countenance, reversing oddly some of 
its shadows, and glittering wdth a snakelike 
brightness on the eyes, which now gazed 
grimly into the bars under their heavy brow’s. 

The large and rather flat foot, shining in 
French leather, of tlie portly gentleman in 
the ample black velvet w^aistcoat, rested on 
the fender, and he spoke not a w'ord until his 
cigar w^as ffiirly smoked out and the stump 


GUY DEVERELL. 


37 


of it ill the fire. Abruptly he began, without 
altering his pose or the direction of his gaze. 

“ You need not make yourself more friendly 
with any person here than is absolutely ne- 
cessary.” 

He was speaking French, and in a low 
tone that sounded like the boom of a distant 
bell. 

Young Strangwaj^s bowed acquiescence. 

“ Be on your guard with Sir Jekyl Mar- 
lowe. Tell him nothing. Don’t let him be 
kind to you. He will have no kind motive 
in being so. Fence with his questions — 
don’t answer them. Remember he is an art- 
ful man without any scruple. I know him 
and all about him.” 

M. Varbarriere spoke each of these little 
sentences in an isolated way, as a smoker 
might, although he was no longer smoking, 
between his puffs. “ Therefore, not a word 
to him — no obligations — no intimacy. If he 
catches you by the hand, even by your little 
finger, in the way of friendship, he’ll cling to 
it, so as to impede your arm^ should it become 
necessary to exert it.” 

“ I don’t understand you, sir,” said the 
young man, in a deferential tone, but looking 
very hard at him. 

You partly don’t understand me; tire 
nature of my direction, however, is clear. 
Observe it strictly.” 

There was a short silence here. 

“ I don’t understand, sir, what covert hos- 
tility can exist between us ; that is, why I 
should, in your phrase, keep my hand free to 
exert it against him.” 

‘‘ No, I don’t suppose you do.” 

“ And I can’t help regretting that, if such 
are our possible relations, I should find 
myself as a guest under his roof,” said the 
young man, with a pained and almost resent- 
ful look. 

“ You can’t help regretting, and — you 
can’t help the circumstance,” vibrated his 
Mentor, in a metallic murmur, his cadave- 
rous features wearing the same odd character 
of deep thought and apathy. 

“ I don’t know, with respect to him — I 
know, however, how it has affected me — 
that I have felt unhappy, and even guilty 
since this journey commenced, as if I were a 
traitor and an impostor,” said the young man 
with a burst of impatience. 

“ Don’t, sir, use phrases which reflect back 
upon w^g,” said the other, turning upon him 
with a sudden sternness. “ All you have 
done is by my direction.” 

The ample black waistcoat heaved and 
subsided a little faster than before, and the 
imposing countenance wa^ turned with pallid 
fierceness upon the young man. 

“ I am sorry, uncle.” 

“ So you should — you’ll see one day how 
little it is to me, and how much to you.” 

Here was a pause. The senior turned his 
face again toward the fire. The little flush 
that in wrath always touched his forehead 
subsided slowly. He replaced his foot on 
the fender, and chose another cigar, 

“ There's a great deal you don’t see now 
that you will presently. I did not want to 


I see Sir Jekyl Marlowe any more than you 
Idid or do ;• but I did want to see this place. 
You’ll know hereafter why. I’d rather not 
have met him. I’d rather not be his guest. 
Had he been as usual at Dartbroke, 1 should 
have seen all I wanted without that annoy- 
ance. It is an accident his being here — 
another, his having invited me ; but no false 
ideas and no trifling chance shall regulate, 
much less stop, the action of the machine 
which I am constructing and will soon put 
in motion.” 

And with these words he lighted his cigar, 
and after smoking for a while he lowered it, 
and said — 

“ Did Sir Jekyl put any questions to you, 
with a view to learn particulars about you or 
me?” 

“ I don’t recollect that he did. I rather 
think not ; but Captain Drayton did.” 

I know, Smitkersf' 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ With an object ?” inquired the elder man. 

“ I think not — merely impertinence,” an- 
swered Guy Strangways. 

“ You are right — it is nothing to him. I 
do not know that even Marlowe has a sus- 
picion. Absolutely impertinence.” 

And upon this M. Varbarriere began to 
smoke again with resolution and energy. 

“ You understand, Guy ; you may be as 
polite as you please— but no friendship- 
no where — you must remain quite unembar- 
rassed.” 

Here followed some more smoke, and after 
it the question — 

“ What do you think of the young lady. 
Mademoiselle Marlowe ?” 

She sings charmingly, and for the rest, I 
believe she is agreeable ; but my app'^rtunities 
have been very little.” 

“ What do you think of our fellow Jacque 
— is he trustworthy ?” 

“ Perfectly, so far as I know.” 

“ You never saw him peep into letters, or 
that kind of thing? ’ 

“ Certainly not.” 

There is a theory which must be investi- 
gated, and I should like to* employ him. 
You know nothing against him, nor do I.” 

“ Suppose we go to our beds ?” resumed 
the old gentleman, having finished his cigar. 

A door at either side opened from the 
dressing-room, by whose fire they had been 
sitting. 

“ See which room is meant for me — Jacque 
will have placed my things there.” 

The young man did as he was bid, and 
made his report. 

“ Well, get you to bed, Guy, and remember 
— no friendships and no follies.” 

And so the old man rose, and shook his 
companion’s hand, not smiling, but with a 
solemn and thoughtful countenance, and they 
separated for the night. 

Next morning as the Rev. Dives Marlowe 
stood in his natty and unexceptionable cleri- 
cal costume on the hall-door steps, looking 
with a pompous and, perhaps, a somewhat 
forbidding countenance upon the morning 
prospect before him, his brother joined himT 


GUY DEVERELL. 




“ Early bird, Dives, pick the worm— eh ? 
Healthy and wise already, and wealthy to be. 
Slept well, eh 

“ Always w'ell here,” answered the parson. 
He was less of a parson and more like him- 
self with Jekyl than with anyone else. His 
brother was so uncomfortably amused with 
his clerical airs, knew him so well, and so 
undisguisedly esteemed him of the earth 
earthy, that the cleric, although the abler as 
well as the better read man, always felt in- 
variably a little sheepish before him, in his 
silk vest and single-breasted coat with the 
standing collar, and the demi-shovel, which 
under other eyes he felt to be imposing prop- 
erties. 

“ You look so like that exemplary young 
man in Watts’ hymns, in the old-fashioned 
toggery. Dives — the fellow with the hand- 
some round cheeks, you know, piously salut- 
ing the morning sun that’s rising with a lot 
of spokes stuck out of it, don’t you remem- 
ber V” 

“ I look like something that’s ugly, I dare 
say,’’ said the parson, who had not got up in 
a good temper. “ There never w'as a Mar- 
lowe yet -who hadn’t ugly points about him. 
But a young man, though never so ugly, is 
rather a bold comparison — eh? seeing I’m 
but two years your junior, Jekyl.” 

“ Bitterly true — every word — my dear boy. 
But let us be pleasant. I’ve had a line to 
say that old Moulders is very ill, and really 
dying this time. Just read this melancholy 
little bulletin.” 

With an air which seemed to say, “ well, to 
please you,” he took the note and read it. It 
was from his steward, to mention that the 
Rev. Abraham Moulders was extremely ill 
of his old complaint, and that there was 
something even worse the matter, and that 
Doctor Winters had said that morning he 
could not possibly get over this attack. 

“ Well, Dives, there is a case of ‘ sick and 
weak ’ for you ; you’ll have prayers for him 
at Queen’s Chorleigh, eh ?” 

“ Poor old man !” said Dives, solemnly, 
with his head thrown back, and his thick 
eyebrows elevated a little, and looking 
straight before him as he returned the note, 
“he’s very ill, indeed, unless this reports 
much too unfavorably.” 

“ Too favorably, you mean,” suggested 
the Baronet. 

“ But you know, poor old man, it is only 
wonderful he has lived so long. The old 
people about there say he is eighty-seven. 
Upon my -word, old Jenkins says he told 
him, two years ago, himself, he was eighty- 
five; and Doctor Winters, no chicken-just 
sixty— says his father was in the same 
college with him, at Cambridge, nearly 
sixty-seven years ago. You know, my 
dear Jekyl, when a man comes to that 
’time of life, it’s all idle — a mere pull 
against wind and tide, and everything. 
It is appointed unto all men once to die, 
you know, and the natural term is three- 
score years and ten. All idle — all in 
vain ! ” 

And delivering this, the Rev. Dives 


Marlowe shook his head with a supercilious 
melancholy, as if the Rev. Abraham Moul- 
ders’ holding out in that way against the 
inevitable was a piece of melancholy bra- 
vado, against which, on the part of modest 
mortality, it was his sad duty to protest. 

“Jek3Ts cynicism was tickled, although 
there was care at his heart, and he chuckled 

“ And how do you know you have any 
interest in the old fellow’s demise ?” 

The Rector coughed a little, and fiushed, 
and looked as careless as he could, while he 
answered — 

“ I said nothing of the kind ; but you have 
always told me you meant the living for 
me. I’ve no reason, only y^our goodness, 
Jekyl.” 

“ Ho goodness at all,” said Jekyl, kindly 
“You shall have it, of course. I always 
meant it for you. Dives, and I wish it were 
better, and I’m very glad, for I’m fond of 
you, old fellow.” 

Hereupon they both laughed a little, 
shaking hands very kindly. 

“ Come to the stable. Dives,” said the 
Baronet, taking his arm. “ You must 
choose a horse. You don’t hunt now ?” 

“ I have not been at a cover for ten years,” 
answered the reverend gentleman, speaking 
with a consciousness of the demi-shovel. 

“ Well, come along,” continued the Baro- 
net. “ I want to ask you — let’s be smous” 
(everybody likes to be serious over his own 
business). “ What do you think of these 
foreign personages ?” 

“ The elder, 1 should say”, an able man,” 
answered Dives. “ I dare say could be 
agreeable. It is not easy to assign his 
exact rank though, nor his profession or 
business. You remarked he seems to know 
something in detail and technically of nearly 
every business one mentions.” 

“ Yes ; and about the young man — that 
Mr. Guy Strangway^s, with his foreign 
accent and manner— did anything strike 
you about him ?” 

“ Yes, certainly^ could not fail. The 
most powerful likeness, I think, I ever saw 
in my life.” 

They both stopped, and exchanged a 
steady and anxious look, as if each expected 
the other to say more ; and after a while 
the Rev. Dives Marlowe added, with an 
awful sort of nod — 

“ Guy Deverell.” 

The Baronet nodded in reply. 

“ Well, in fact, he appeared to me some- 
thing more than like — the same — identical.” 

“And old Lady Alice saw him in Ward- 
lock Church, and w^as made quite ill,” said 
the Baronet gloomily. “ But you know 
he’s gone these thirty years; and there is 
no necromancy now-a-days ; only I wdsh 
you would take any opportunity, and try 
and make out all about him, and what they 
want. I brought them here to pump them, 
by Jove ; but that old fellow seems deuced 
reserved and wary. Only, like a good 
fellow, if you can find or make an opportu- 
nityr, ymu must get the young fellow on the 
subject — for I don’t care to tell you. Dives, 


GUY DEYERELL. 


39 


I have been devilish uneasy about it. 
There are things that make me confoundedly 
uncomfortable; and I have a sort of fore- 
boding it would have been better for me to 
have blowm up this house than to have 
come here; but ten to one — a hundred to 
one — there’s nothing, and I’m only a fool.” 

As they thus talked they entered the 
gate of the stable-yard. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

CONTAINING A VARIETY OF THINGS. 

** Guy Deverelr left no issue,” said Dives. 

“No; none in the world; neither chick 
nor child. I need not care a brass farthing 
about any that can’t inherit, if there were 
any ; but there isn’t one ; there’s no real 
danger you see. In fact, there can't be 
any— oh. /don’t see it. you? You 
w'ere a sharp fellow always, Dives. Gan 
you see anything threatening in it ?” 

What?" said the J^ev. Dives Mar- 
lowe. “ I see nothing — nothing whatever — 
absolutely nothing. Surely you can’t fancy 
that a mere resemblance, however strong, 
where there can’t possibly be identity, and 
the fact that the young man’s name is Guy, 
will make a case for alarm !” 

“ Guy Strangways^ you know,” said Sir 
Jekyl. 

“ Well, what of Strangways ? I don’t see.” 

“ Why, Strangways, you remember, or 
don't remember, was the name of the fellow 
that was always with — with — that cross- 
grained muff.” 

“ With Guy Deverell, you mean 

“ Ay, with him at night, and constantly, 
and abroad I think at those German gaming- 
places where he played so much.” 

“ I forgot the name. I remember hearing 
there was a person in your company that 
unlucky night ; but you never heard more 
of him ?” 

“ Ho, of course ; for he owed me a pre- 
cious lot of money ;’^ and from habit he 
chuckled, but with something of a frown. 
“ He could have given me a lot of trouble, 
but so could I him. My lawyers said he 
could not seriously affect me, but he might 
have annoyed me ; and I did not care about 
the money, so I did not follow him; and, 
as the lawyers say, we turned our backs on 
one another.” 

“ Strangways,” murmured the Rector, mu- 
singly. 

“ Do you remember him now ?” asked Sir 
Jekyl. 

“ No ; that is. I’m not sure. I was in or- 
ders then though, and could hardly have met 
him. I am sure I should recollect him if I 
had. What was he like ?” 

“ A nasty-looking Scotch dog, with freckles 
— starved and tall — a hungry hound — large 
hands and feet — as ugly a looking cur as you 
ever beheld.” 

“ But Deverell, poor fellow, was a bit of a 
dandy — wasn’t he? How did he come to 
choose such a companion ?” 


“ Well, may be he was not quite as bad as 
he describes, and his family was good, I be- 
lieve ; but there must have been something 
more, he hung about him so. Yes, he was a 
most objectionable-looking fellow — so awk- 
ward, and not particularly well dressed ; but 
a canny rascal, and knew what he was about. 
I could not make out what use Deverell 
made of him, nor exrctly what advantage he 
made of Deverell.” 

“ I can’t, for the life of me, see, Jekyl, any- 
thing in it except a resemblance, and that is 
positively nothing, and a Christian name, 
that is all, and Guy is no such uncommon 
one. As for Strangways, he does not enter, 
into it at all — a mere accidental association. 
Where is that Strangways — is he living ?” 

“ I don’t know now ; ten years ago he was, 
and Pelter and Crowe thought he was going 
to do me some mischief, a prosecution or 
something, they thought, to extort money • 
but I knew they were wrong. I had a reason 
— at least it was unlikely, because I rather 
think he had repaid me that money about 
then. A year or so before a large sum oi 
money w^as lodged to my account by Herbert 
Strangways, that was his name, at the Inter- 
national Bank in Lombard Street ; in fact it 
was more than I thought he owed me — in- 
terest, I suppose, and that sort of thing. I 
put Pelter and Crowe in his track, but they 
could make out nothing. The bank people 
could not help us. Unluckily I was away at 
the time, and the lodgement was two months 
old when 1 heard of it. There were several 
raw Scotch-looking rascals, they said, making 
lodgments about then, and they could not 
tell exactly what sort of fellow made this. I 
wanted to make out about him. What do 
you think of it ?” 

“ I don’t see anything suspicious in it. He 
owed you the money and chose to pay.” 

“ He was protected by the Statute of Lim- 
itations, my lawyer said, and I could not 
have recovered it. Doesn’t it look odd ?” 

“ Those Scotch fellows.” 

“ He’s not Scotch though.” 

“ Well, whatever he is, if he has good blood 
he’s proud, perhaps, and would rather pay 
what he owes than not.” 

“ Well of course, a fellovf’s glad of the 
money ; but I did not like it ; it looked as if 
he wanted to get rid of the only pull I had 
on him, and was going to take* the steps to 
annoy me, you see.” 

“ That’s ten years asro ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, considering how short life is, I 
think he’d have moved before now if he had 
ever thought of it. It is a quarter of a century 
since poor Deverell’s time. It’s a good while, 
you know, and the longer you wait in matters 
of that kind the less your chance ;” and with a 
brisk decision the Rector added, “ I’ll stake, I 
think, all I’m worth, these people have no 
more connection with poor Deverell than 
NapoleonBonaparte, and that Strangways has 
no more notion of moving any matter con- 
nected wnth that unhappy business than he 
has of leading an Irish rebellion.” 

“ I’m glad you take that view — I know it’s 


40 


GUY DEVERELL. 


the sound one. I knew you would. I think 
it’s just a little flicker of gout. If I had taken 
Vichy on my way back I’d never have thought 
, of it. I’ve no one to talk to. It’s a comfort to 
see you, Dives. I wish you’d come oftener.” 
And he placed his hand very kindly on his 
brother’s shoulder. 

“ So I will,” said Dives, not without kind- 
ness in his eyes, though his mouth was for- 
bidding still. “ You must not let chimeras 
take hold of you. I’m very glad I was here.” 

“ Did you remark that fat, mountainous 
French fellow, in that cursed suit of black, 
was very inquisitive about the green cham- 
ber?” asked Sir Jekyl, relapsing a little. 

“ No, I did not hear him mention it ; what 
was it ?” asked Dives. 

‘ Well, not a great deal ; only he seemed 
to want to know all about that particular 
room and its history, just as if there was al- 
ready something in his head about it.” 

“ Well, I told you, Jekyl,” said Dives, in a 
subdued tone and looking away a little, “ you 
ought to do something decisive about that 
room, all things considered. If it were mine, 
I can tell you, I should pull it down — not, of 
course, in such a way as to make people talk 
and ask questions, but as a sort of improve- 
ment. I’d make a conservatory, or some- 
thing; you want a conservatory, and the 
building is positively injured by it. It is not 
the same architecture. You might put some- 
thing there twice as good. At all events I’d 
get rid of it.” 

“ So I will— I intend — I think you’re right 
— I really do. But it was brought about by 
little Beatrix talking about haunted rooms, 
you know, and that sort of nonsense,” said 
Sir Jekyl. 

“ Oh ! then she mentioned it ? He only 
asked questions about what she told him. 

^ Surely you’re not going to vex yourself about 
that ?” 

Sir Jekyl looked at him and laughed, but 
not quite comfortably. 

“ Well, I told you, you know, I do believe 
it’s great ; and whatever it is, I know. Dives, 
you’ve done me a great deal of good. Come, 
now. I’ve a horse I think you’ll like, and you 
shall have him ; try him to-day, and I’ll send 
him home for you if he suits yon.” 

While the groom was putting up the horse. 
Sir Jekyl, who was quick and accurate of eye, 
recognised the dark-faced, intelligent little 
valet, whom he had seen for a moment, candle 
in hand, at the dressing-room door, last night, 
to receive his guests. 

With a deferential smile, and shrug, and 
bow, all at once, this little gentleman lifted 
his cap with one hand, removing his Ger- 
man pipe with the other. 

He had been a courier — clever, active, gay 
— a man who might be trusted with money, 
papers, diamonds. Beside his native French, 
he spoke English very well, and a little Ger- 
man. He could keep accounts, and write a 
neat little foreign hand with florid capitals. 
He could mend his own clothes, and even his 
shoes. He could play the flute a little, and 
very much the fiddle. He was curious, and 
liked to know what was taking place. He 


liked a joke and the dance, and was prone to 
the tender passion, and liked, in an honest 
way, a little of intrigue, or even espionage. 
Such a man he was as I could fancy in a 
light company of that marvellous army of 
Italy, of which Napoleon I. always spoke 
with respect and delight. 

In the stable yard, as I have said, the Bar- 
onet found this dark sprite smoking a Ger- 
man pipe ; and salutations having been ex- 
changed, he bid him try instead two of his 
famous cigars, which he presented, and then 
he questioned him on tobacco, and on his 
family, the theatres, the railways, the hotels ; 
and finally Sir Jekyl said, 

“I wish you could recollect a man like 
yourself— I want one confoundedly. I shall 
be going abroad in August next year, and I’d 
give him five thousand francs a 3^ear, or mor^ 
even, with pleasure, and keep him probably 
as long as he liked to stay with me. Try if 
you can remember such a fellow. Turn it 
over in your mind — do you see ? and I don’t 
care how soon he comes into my service.” 

The man lifted his cap again, and bowed 
even lower, as he undertook to “ turn it over 
in his mind and though he smiled a great 
deal, it was plain his thoughts were already 
seriously employed in turning the subject 
over, as requested by the Baronet. 

Next morning M. Varbarriere took a quiet 
opportunity, in the hall, of handing to his 
host two letters of introduction, as they are 
called— one from the Baronet’s old fllend, 
Charteris, attached to the embassy at Paris 
— a shrewd fellow, a man of the world, 
amphibious, both French and English, and 
equally at home on either soil — speaking un- 
mistakably in high terms of M. Varbarriere 
as of a gentleman very much respected in 
very high quarters. The other was equally 
handsome. But Charteris was exactly the 
man whose letter in such a case was to be 
relied upon. 

The Baronet glanced over these, and said 
he was very glad to hear from his friend 
Charteris — the date was not a week since — 
but laughed at the formality, regretting that 
he had not a note from Charteris to present 
in return, and then gracefully quoted an old 
French distich, the sentiment of which is that 
“ chivalry proclaims itself, and the gentleman 
is no more to be mistaken than the rose,” and 
proceeded to ask his guest, “ How is Chart- 
eris — he had hurt his wrist when I saw him 
last— and is there any truth in the report 
about his possible alliance with that rich 
widow ?” and so forth. 

When Sir Jekyl got into his sanctum I am 
afraid he read both letters with a very micro- 
scopic scrutin}*, and he resolved inwardly to 
write a very sifting note to Charteris, and 
put it upon him, as an act of friendship, to 
make out every detail of the past life and ad- 
ventures of M. Varbarriere, and particularly 
whether he had any young kinsman, nephew 
or otherwise, answering a certain description, 
all the items of which he had by rote. 

But writing of letters is to some people a 
ver}^ decided bore. The Baronet detested it, 
and his anxieties upon these points being in- 


GUY DEVERELL. 


41 


tfermittent, tlie interrof:atories were not so 
soon despatched to his friend Charteris. 

Old General Lennox was away for London 
this morning ; and his host took a seat beside 
liiin in the brougham that was to convey 
him to the station, and was dropped on the 
way at the keeper’s lodge, when he bid a 
kind and courteous adieu to his guest, whom 
he charged to return safe and soon, and kissed 
his hand, and waved it after the florid smil- 
ing countenance and bushy white ej^ebrows 
that were protruded from the carriage-win- 
dow as it glided away. 

“ You can manage it all in a day or two, 
can’t you ?” said the Baronet, cordially, as he 
held the General’s wrinkled hand, with its 
knobby and pink joints, in his genial grasp. 
“We positively won’t give you more than 
three days’ leave. Capital shooting when 
you come back. I’m going to talk it over 
with the keeper here — that is, if you come 
back before we’ve shot them all.” 

“ Oh ! yes, hang it, you must leave a bird 
or two for me,” laughed the General, and he 
bawled the conclusion of the joke as the ve- 
hicle drove away ; but Sir Jekyl lost it. ^ 

Sir Jekyl was all the happier for his morn- 
ing’s talk with his brother. An anxiety, if 
only avowed and discussed, is so immensely 
lightened ; but Dives had scouted the whole 
thing so peremptorily that the Baronet was 
positively grateful. Dives was a wise and 
clear-headed fellow. It was delighful his 
taking so decided a view. And was it not 
on reflection manifestly, even to him, the 
sound view ? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE MAGICIAH DKAWS A DIAGRAM. 

The Baronet approached Marlowe Manor 
on the side at which the stables and out- 
offices lie, leaving which to his left, he took 
his Avay by the path through the wood which 
leads to the terrace-walk that runs parallel 
to the side of the old house on which the 
green chamber lies. 

On this side the lofty timber approaches 
the walks closely, and the green enclosure is 
but a darkened strip and very solitary. Here, 
when Sir Jekyl emerged, he saw M. Yarbar- 
riere standing on the grass, and gazing up- 
ward in absorbed contemplation of the build- 
ing, which on the previous evening seemed 
to have excited his curiosity so unaccount- 
ably. 

He did not hear the Baronet’s approach- 
ing step on the grass. 'Sir Jekyl felt both 
al irined and angry ; for although it was but 
natural that his guest should have visited the 
spot and examined the building, it yet 
seemed to him, for the moment, like the act 
of a spy. 

“ Disappointed, I’m afraid,” said he. “ I 
told you that addition was the least worth 
looking at of all the parts of this otherwise 
ancient house.” 

He spoke with a sort of sharpness that 
seemed quite uncalled for ; but it was unno- 
ticed*. 

M. Yarbarriere bowed low and graciously. 


“ I am much interested — every front of 
this curious and handsome house interests 
me. This indeed, as you say, is a good deal 
spoiled by that Italian incongruity — still it 
is charming — the contrast is as beautiful 
frequently as the harmony — and I am per- 
plexed.” 

“ Some of my friends tell me it spoils the 
house so much I ought to pull it down, and 
I have a great mind to do so. Have you 
seen the lake ? I should be happy to show 
it to you if you will permit me.” 

The Baronet, as he spoke, w^as, from time 
to time, slyly searching the solemn and pro- 
found face of the stranger ; but could find 
there no clue to the spirit of his investiga- 
tion. There was no shrinking — no embar- 
rassment — no consciousness. He might as 
well have looked on the awful surface of the 
sea, in the expectation of discovering there 
the secrets of its depths. 

M. Yarbarriere, with a profusion of grati- 
tude, regretted that he could not just then 
visit the lake, as he had several letters to 
write ; and so he and his host parted smiling 
at the hall door ; and the Baronet, as he pur- 
sued' his way, felt some stirrings of that men- 
tal dyspepsia which had troubled him of late. 

“ The old fellow had not been in the house 
two hours,” such was his train of thought, 

“ when he was on the subject of that gr6en 
chamber, in the parlor and in the drawing 
room — again and again recurring to it ; aiui 
here he was just now, alone, absorbed, and 
gazing up at its windows, as if he could think 
of nothing else !” 

Sir Jekyl felt provoked, and almost as if 
he would like a crisis; and half regretted 
that he had not asked him — “ Pray can I 
give you any information ; is there anything * 
you particularly want to know about that 
room ? question me as you please, you shall 
see the room — you shall sleep in it if jon 
like, so soon as it is vacant. Pray declare 
yourself, and sa}'- what you want.” 

But second thoughts are said; to be best, 
if not always wisest : and this brief rehearing 
of the case against his repose ended in a 
“ dismiss,” as before. It was so natural, and 
indeed inevitable, that he should himself in- 
spect the original of those views which he 
had examined the night before with interest, 
considering that, being a man who cared not 
for the gun or the fishing-rod, and plainly 
without sympathies with cither georgics or 
bucolics, he had not many otlier ways of 
amusing himself in these country quarters. 

M. Yarbarriere, in the meantime, had en- 
tered his chamber. I suppose he was amused, 
for so soon as he closed the door he smiled 
with a meditative sneer. It was not a fiend- 
ish one, not even moderately wicked ; but a 
sneer is in the countenance whett irony is in 
the voice, and never pleasant. 

If the Baronet had seen the expression of 
M. Yarbarriere’s countenance as he sat down 
in his easy-chair, he would probably have 
been much disquieted — perhaps not without 
reason. 

M. Yarbarriere was known in his own 
neighborhood as a dark and inflexible man, 


42 


GUY DEVERELL. 


but with these reservations kind; just in his 
dealings, bold in enterprise, and charitable, 
but ncH on impulse, with a due economy of 
resource, and a careful measurement of de- 
sert ; on the wdiole, a man to be respected 
and little feared, but a useful citizen. 

Instead of writing letters as, of course, he 
had intended, M. Varbarriere amused himself 
by making a careful little sketch on a leaf of 
his pocket-book. It seemed hardly worth all 
the pains he bestowed upon it ; for, after all, 
it was but a paralellogram with a projecting 
segment of a circle at one end, and a smaller 
one at the side, and he noted his diagram 
with figures, then pondered over it wdtli a 
thoughtful countenance, and made, after a 
while, a little cross at one end of it, and then 
fell a wdiistling thoughtfully, and nodded 
once or twice, as a thought struck’ him ; and 
then he marked another cross at one of its 
sides, and reflected in like manner over this, 
and as he thought, fiddling with his pencil at 
the foot of the page, he scribbled the word 
“ hypothesis.” Then he put up his pocket- 
book, and stood listlessly with his hands in 
the pockets of his vast black trow'sers, look- 
ing from the window, and whistled a little 
more, the air hurrying sometimes, and some- 
times dragging a good deal, so as to come at 
times to an actual standstill. 

On turning the coiner of the mansion Sir 
Jekyl found himself on a sudden in the midst 
of tlie ladies of his party, just descending 
from the carriages which had driven them 
round the lake. He was of that gay and 
gallant temperament, as the reader is aware, 
which is fired with an instantaneous inspira- 
tion at sight of this sort of plumage and 
flutter. 

“ What a fortunate fellow am I !” ex- 
claimed Sir Jekyl, forgetting in a moment 
everything but the sunshine, the gay voices, 
and the pretty sight before him. “ I had 
laid myself out for a solitary walk, and lo ! 
I’m in the mid^t of a paradise of graces, 
nymphs, and what not !” 

“ W e have had such a charming drive 
round the lake,” said gay little Mrs. Maberly. 

“ The lake never looked so well before. 
I’m sure. So stocked, at least, with fresh 
water sirens and mermaids. Never did .mir- 
ror reflect so much beauty. An instinct, 
you see, drew me this W’a3^ I assure you I 
wuis on my way to the lake ; one of those 
enamored sprites who sing us tidings in such 
tiny voices, we can’t distinguish them from 
our own fancies, warbled a word in my ear, 
only a little too late, I suppose.” 

The Baronet was reciting his admiring 
nonsense to pretty Mrs. Maberly, but his eye 
from time to time wandered to Lady Jane, 
and rested for a moment on that haughty 
beauty, who, with downcast languid eyes, 
one would have thought neither heard nor 
saw him. 

This gallant Baronet was so well under- 
stood that every lady expected to hear that 
kind of tender flattery whenever he ad- 
dressed himself to the fair sex. It was quite 
inevitable, and simply organic and constitu- 
tional as blackbird’s whistle and kitten’s 


play, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hun- 
dred, I am sure, meant absolutely nothing. 

“ But those sprites always come with a 
particular message, don’t they?” said old 
Miss Blunket, smiling archly from the cor- 
ners of her flerce eyes. “ Don’t you think 
so, Mr. Linnett?” 

“ You are getting quite above me,” an- 
swered that sprightly gentleman, who was 
growing just a little tired of Miss Blunket’s 
attentions. “ I suppose it’s spiritualism. 1 
know nothing about it. What do you say, 
Lady Jane ?” 

“ I think it very heathen,” said Lady Jane, 
tired, I suppose, of the subject. 

“ I like to be heathen, now and then,” said 
Sir Jekyl, in a lower key ; he was by this 
time beside Lady Jane. “I’d have been a 
most pious Pagan. As it is, I can’t help 
worshipping in the Pantheon, and trjdng 
sometimes even to make a proselyte.” 

“ Oh ! you wicked creature !”- cried little 
Mrs. Maberly. “ I assure jmu. Lady Jane, 
his conversation is quite frightful.” 

Lady Jane glanced a sweet, rather languid, 
sidelong smile at the little lady. 

“ You’ll not get Lady Jane to believe all 
that mischief of me , Mrs. Maberly. I appeal 
for my character to the General.” 

“ But he’s hundreds of miles away, and 
can’t hear you,” laughed little Mrs. Maberly, 
who really meant nothing satirical. 

“ I forget ; but he’ll be back to-morrow or 
next day,” replied Sir Jekyl, with rather a 
dry chuckle, “ and in the meantime I must 
do without one, I suppose. Here we are, 
Mr. Strangways, all talking nonsense, the 
pleasantest occupation on earth. Do come 
and help us.” 

This was addressed to Guy Strangways, 
who, with his brother angler. Captain Doocey, 
in the picturesque negligence and black wide- 
awakes of fishermen, with baskets and rods, 
approached. 

“ Only too glad to be permitted to contri- 
bute,” said the young man, smiling, and rais- 
ing his hat. 

“ And pray permit rae, also,” said courtly 
old Doocey. “ I could talk it, I assure you, 
before he was born. I’ve graduated in the 
best schools, and was a doctor of nonsense 
before he could speak even a word of sense.” 

“Not a bad specimen to begin with. 
Leave your rods and baskets there ; some one 
will bring them in. Now we are so large a 
party, you must come and look at my grapes. 

I am told my black Hamburgs are the finest 
in the world.” 

So, chatting and laughing, and some in oth- 
er moods, towards those splendid graperies 
they moved, from which, as Sir Jekyl used 
to calculate, he had the privilege of eating 
black Hamburg and other grapes at about tlie 
rate of one shilling each. 

“ A grapery — how delightful !” cried little 
Mrs. Maberly. 

“ I quite agree with you,” exclainied Miss 
Blunket, who effervesced with a girlish en- 
thusiasm upon even the most ditficult sub- 
jects. “ It is not the grapes, though they are 
so pretty, and a — bacchanalian — no, I don’t 


GUY DEVERELL. 


43 


mean tliat — why do you laugh at me so ? 
but the atmosphere I Don’t you love it ? it is 
so like Lisbon — at least what I fancy it, for I 
never was there ; but at home, I bring my 
book there and enjoy it so. I call it mock 
Portugal.” 

“ It has helped to dry her,” whispered Lin- 
nett so loud in Doocey’s ear as to make that 
courteous old dandy very uneasy. 

It was odd that Sir Jekyl showed no sort 
of discomfort at sight of Guy Strangways on 
his sudden appearance ; a thrill he felt indeed 
whenever he unexpectedly beheld that hand- 
some and rather singular-looking young man 
— a most unpleasant sensation — but although 
he moved about him like a resurrection of 
the past, and an omen of his fate, he yet grew 
in a sort of way accustomed to this haunting 
enigma, and could laugh and talk apparently 
quite carelessly in his presence. I have been 
told of men, the victims of a spectral illu- 
sion, who could move about a saloon, and 
smile, and talk and listen, with their awful 
tormentor gliding always about them and 
spying out all their ways. 

Just about this hour the clumsy old car- 
riage of Lady Alice Redcliffe stood at her 
hall-door steps, in the small square court-yard 
of Wardlock Manor, and the florid iron gates 
stood wide open, resting on their piers. The 
coachman’s purple visage looked loweringly 
round ; the footman, with his staff of office 
in hand, leaning on the door-post, gazed with 
a peevish listlessness through the open gate- 
w^ay across the road ; the near horse had be- 
gun to hang his head, and his off-companion 
had pawed a considerable hole in Lady 
Alice’s nattily-kept gravel enclosure. From 
these signs one might have reasonably con- 
jectured that these honest !-etainers, brute and 
human, had been kept waiting for their mis- 
tress somewhat longer than usual. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

ANOTHER GUEST PREPARES TO COME. 

Lady Alice was at that moment in her 
bonnet and ample black velvet cloak and er- 
mines, and the rest of her traveling costume, 
seated in her stately parlor, which, like most 
parlors of tolerably old mansions in that part 
of the country, is wainscoted in very black 
oak. In her own way Lady Alice evinced at 
least as much impatience as her dependants 
out of doors ; she tapped with her foot mo- 
notonously upon her carpet ; she opened and 
shut her black shining leather bag, and pluck- 
ed at and re-arranged its contents ; she tat- 
tooed with her pale prolix fingers on the ta- 
ble ; sometimes she staffed a little; some- 
times she muttered. As often as she fan- 
cied a sound, she raised her chin imperious- 
ly, and with a supercilious fixity, stared at 
tlie door until expectation had again ex- 
pired in disappointment, wffien she would 
pluck out her watch, and glancing disdain- 
fully upon it, exclaim — 

“ Upon my life !” or, “ Very pretty beha- 
vior !” 


At last, however, the sound of a vehicle — 
a “ fly ” it was — unmistakably made itself 
heard at the hall-door, and her lady, with a 
preparatory shake of her head, as a pugna- 
cious animal shakes his ears, and a “ hem,” 
and a severe and pallid countenance, sat up 
very high and stiffly, in her chair. 

The door opened, and the splendid footman 
inquired whether her ladyship w^ould please 
to see Mrs. Gwynn. 

“ Show her in,” said Lady Alice wdth a high 
look and an awful quietude. 

And our old friend, Donica, just as thin, 
pallid, and, in her own way, self-possessed, 
entered the room. 

“ Well, Donica Gwynn, you’ve come at 
last ! you have kept my horses standing at 
the door — a thing I never do myself— for 
three-quarters of an hour and four minutes !” 

Donica Gwynn was sorry ; but she could 
not help it. She explained how^ the delay had 
occurred, and, though respectful, her expla- 
nation w^as curt, and dry in proportion to the 
sharpness and dryness of her reception. 

“ Sit down, Donica,” said the lady, relent- 
ing loftily. “ How do you do ?” 

“ Pretty well, I thank your ladyship ; and 
I hope I see you well, my lady.” 

“ As well as I can ever be, Donica, and that 
is but poorly. I’m going, you know% to Mar- 
low^e.” 

“ I’m rayther glad on it, my lady.” 

“ And I wish to know why said Lady 
Alice. 

“ I wrote the why and the wherefore, my 
lady, in my letter,” answered the ex-house- 
keeper, looking askance on the table, and 
closing her thin lips tightly when she had 
spoken. 

“ Your letter, my good Donica, it is next to 
impossible to read, and quite impossible to 
understand. What I want to know distinct- 
ly is, why you have urged me so vehemently 
to go to Marlowe.” 

“ Well, my lady, I thought I said pretty 
plain it was about my Lady Jane, the pretty 
creature you had on visits here, and liked so 
well, poor thing ; an’ it seemed to me she’s 
like to be in danger where she is. I can’t ex- 
plain how e xactly ; but General Lennox is 
gone up to London, and I think, my lady, you 
ought to get her out of that unlucky room, 
where he has put her ; and, at all events, U) 
keep as near to her as you can yourself, at aU 
times y 

“ I’ve listened to you, Donica, and I can’t 
comprehend you. I see you are hinting at 
something; but unless you are explicit, I 
don’t see that I can be of any earthly use.” 

“ You can, my lady— that is, you may, if you 
only do as I say — I canH explain it more, nor 
I won'tj^ said Donica, peremptorily, perhaps 
bitterly. 

“ There can be no good reason, Donica, for 
reserve upon a point of so much moment as ; 
you describe this to be. Wherever reserve ^ 
exists there is mystery, and wherever mys- 
tery — guilt r 

So said Lady Alice, who was gifted with 
a spirit of inquiry which was impatient of 
disappointment. 


44 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Guilt, indeed !” repeated Gwynn, in an 
under-key, with a toss of her head and a 
very white face ; “ there’s secrets enough in 
the world, and no guilt along of ’em.” 

“ What room is it you speak of— the green 
chamber, is not it ?” 

“ Yes, sure, my, lady.” 

‘‘ I think you are all crazed about ghosts 
and devils over there,” exclaimed Lady Alice. 

“ Not much of ghosts, but devils, maybe,” 
muttered Gwynn, oddly, looking sidelong 
over the floor. 

“ It is that room, you say,” repeated Lady 
Alice. 

“ Yes, my lady, the green chamber.” 

“ Well, what about it — come, woman, did 
not you sleep for years in that room ?” 

“ Ay, my lady, a good wdiile.” 

“ And what did you see there ?” 

“ A deal.” 

“ What, I say ?” 

“ Well, supposin’ I was to say devils,” 
replied Donica. 

Lady Alice sneered. 

“ What did poor Lady Marlowe see there ?” 
demanded Donica, looking with her odd eyes 
askance at Lady Alice’s carpet, and backing 
her question with a nod. 

“ Well, 5mu know I never heard exactly ; 
but my darling creature was, as you remem- 
ber, dying of a consumption at the time, 
and miserably nervous, and fancied things, 
no doubt, as people do.” 

“ Well, she did ; I knew it,” said Donica. 

“ You may have conjectured — every one 
can do that ; but I rather think my poor 
dear Amy would hare told me, had she 
cared to divulge it to any living being. I 
am persuaded she herself suspected it w^as 
an allusion — fancy ; but I know she had a 
horror of the room, and I am sure my poor 
girl’s dying request out to have been 
respected.” 

“ So it ought, my laa}^” said Donica, 
turning up her eyes, and raising her lean 
hands together, while she slowly shook her 
head. “ So I said to him, and in like man- 
ner his own father’s dying orders, for such 
they was, my lady ; and they may say what 
they will of Sir Harry, poor gentleman ! 
But he Tvas a kind man, and good to many 
that had not a good word for him after, 
though there may a’ been many a little 
thing that was foolish or the like ; but there 
is mercy above for all, and the bishop that 
is now, then hev^^as the master of the great 
school where our young gentlemen used to 
go to, was with him.” 

“ When he was dying ?” said Lady Alice. 

“ Ay, my lady, a beautiful summer it was, 
and the doctor, nor I, thought it Tvould be 
nothing to speak of ; but he was anxious in 
his mind from the first, and he wrote for 
Doctor Wyndale— it was the holidays then 
— asking him to come to him ; and he did, 
but Sir Harry had took an unexpected turn 
for the worse, and not much did he ever 
say, the Lord a’ mercy on us, after that 
good gentleman, he’s the bishop now, came 
to Marlowe, and he prayed by his bed, and 
closed his eyes ; and I, in and out, and 


wanted there every minute, could not but 
hear some of what he said, which it was not 
much.” 

“He said something about that green 
chamber, as you call it, I always under- 
stood ?” said Lady Alice, interrogatively. 

“Yes, my lady, he wished it shut up, or 
taken clown, or summat that way ; ‘ but 
man proposes and God disposes,’ and there’s 
small affection and less gratitude to be met 
with now-a-daya.” 

“ I think, Donica Gwynn, and I always 
thought, that you knew a good deal more 
than you chose to tell me. Some people 
are reserved and secret, and I suppose it is 
your way ; but I don’t think it could harm 
you to treat me more as your friend.” 

Donica rose, and courtesied as she said — 

“ You have always treated me friendly 
I’m sure, my lady, and I hope I am thank- 
ful ; and this I know. I’ll be a faithful ser- 
vant to your ladyship so long as I continue 
in your ladyship’s service.” 

“ I know that very well ; but I wish you 
were franker with me, that’s all — here are 
the keys.” 

So Donica, with very little ceremony, as- 
sumed the keys of office. 

“ And pray what do you mean exactly ?” 
said Lady Alice, rising and drawing on her 
glove and not looking quite straight at the 
housekeeper as she spoke ; “ do you mean to 
say that Lady Jane is giddy or impertinent ? 
Come, be distinct.” 

“ I can’t say what she is, my Lady, but she 
may be brought into folly some w^ay. I. 
only know this much, please my lady, it will 
be good for her you should be nigh, and your 
eye and thoughts about her, at least till the 
General returns.” 

“ Well, Gwynn, I see you don’t choose to 
trust me.” 

“ I have, my lady, spoke that free to you 
as I w^ould not to any other, I think, alive.” 

“ No, Gwynn, you don’t trust me, you 
have your reasons, I suppose ; but I think you 
are a shrewd woman— shrewd and mean 
well. I don’t suppose that you could talk as 
you do without a reason ; and though I can’t 
see any myself, not believing in apparitions 
or — or ” 

She nearly lost the thread of her discourse 
at this point, for as she spoke the w^ord ap- 
parition, the remembrance of the youug gen- 
tleman whom she had seen in Wardlock 
Church rose in her memory — handsome, pale, 
with sealed lips, and great eyes — unreadable 
as night— the resurrection of another image. 
The old yearning and horror overpowered 
the train of her thoughts, and she floundered 
into silence, and coughed into her handker- 
chief, to hide her momentary confusion. 

“ What was I going to say ?” she said, brisk- 
ly, meaning to refer her break-down to that 
little fit of coughing, and throwing on Gwynn 
the Onus of setting her speech in motion 
again. 

‘ Oh ! yes. I don't believe in those things, 
not a bit. But Jennie, poor thing, though 
she has not treated me quite as she might, 
is a young wife, and very pretty; and the 


GUY DEVERELL. 


45 


house is full of wicked young men from Lon- 
don ; and her old fool of a husband chooses 
to go about his business and leave her to her 
devices — ilmi's what you mean, Gwynn, and 
that’s what I understand.^' 

“ I have said all I can, my lady ; you can 
help her, and be near her night and day,” 
said Donica. 

“ Sir Jekyl in his invitation bid me choose 
my own room — so I shall. I’ll choose that 
oddly-shaped little room that opens into hers 
— if I remember rightly, the room that my 
poor dear Amy occupied in her last illness.” 

“ And, my lady, do you take the key of the 
door, and keep it in your bag, please.” 

“ Of the door of communication between 
the two rooms ?” 

“ Yes, my lad}^” 

“ Why should I take it; you would not 
have me lock her up ?” 

“ Well, no, to be sure, my lady.” 

“ Then why ?” 

“ Because there is no bolt to her door, in- 
side or out. You will see what I mean, my 
lady, when you are there.” 

“ Because she can’t secure her door with- 
out it, I’m to take possession of her key !” 
said Lady Alice, with a dignified sneer. 

•“ Well, my ftdy, it may seem queer, but 
you’ll see what I mean.” 

Lady Alice tossed her stately head. 

“ Any commands in particular, please, my 
lady, before you leave ?” inquired Donica, 
with one of her dry little courtesies. 

“ No ; and I must go. Just hand this i^il- 
low and bag to the man j and I suppose you 
wish your respects to Miss Beatiix?” 

To all which, in her own way, Donica 
Gwynn assented ; and the old lady, assisted 
by her footman, got into the carriage, and 
nodded a pale and silent farewell to her 
housekeeper; and away drove the old car- 
riage at a brisk pace toward Marlowe Manor. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

LADY ALICE TAKES POSSESSION. 

What to the young would seem an age; 
what, even in the arithmetic of the old, 
counts for something, about seventeen 3^ears, 
had glided into the eternal past since last 
Lady Alice had beheld the antique front and 
noble timber of Marlowe Manor ; and mem- 
ory was busy with her heart, and sweet and 
bitter fancies revisiting her old brain, as her 
saddened eyes gazed on that fair picture of 
the past. Old faces gone, old times changed, 
and she, too, but the shadow of her former 
self, soon, like those whom she remember- 
ed there, to vanish quite, and be missed by 
no one. 

“Where is Miss Beatrix?” inquired the 
old lady, as she set her long slim foot upon 
» the oak flooring of the hall. “ I’ll rest a mo- 
ment here.” And she sat down upon a 
carved bench, and looked with sad and 
dreaming eyes through the open door upon 
the autumnal landscape flushed with the set- 
ting sun, the season and the hour harmonis- 
ing regretfully with her thoughts. 


Her maid came at the summons of the 
footman. “ Tell her that granny has come,” 
said the old woman gently. “ You are quite 
well, Jones f’ 

Jones made her smirk and courtesy, and 
was quite well ; and so tripped up the great 
stair to apprise her young mistress. 

“ Tell the new housekeeper, please, that 
Lady Alice Redclifle wishes very much to 
see her for a moment in the hexagon dress- 
ing-room at the end of the hatchment-gal- 
lery,” said the old lady, names and localities 
coming back to her memory quite naturally 
in the familiar old hall. 

And as he spoke, being an active- minded 
old lady, she rose, and before her first mes- 
sage had reached Beatrix, was ascending the 
well-known stairs, with its broad shining 
steps of oak, and her hand on its ponderous 
banister, feeling strangely, all in a moment, 
how much more she now needed that sup- 
port, and that the sun of the seventeen years 
was something to her as to others. 

On the lobby, just outside this dressing- 
room door, which stood open, letting the 
dusky sunset radiance, so pleasant and so 
sad, fall upon the floor and touch the edges 
of the distant banisters, she was met by smil- 
ing Beatrix. 

“ Darling !” cried the girl, softly, ^as she 
threw her young arras round the neck of the 
stately and thin old lady. “ Darling, darling. 
I’m so glad 1 ” 

She had been living among strangers, and 
the sight and touch of her true old fiiend was 
reassuring. 

Granny’s thin hands held her fondl3^ It 
was pretty to see this embrace, in the glow of 
the evening sun, and the rich brown tresses 
of the girl close to the ashen locks of old 
Lady Alice, who, with unwonted tears in her 
eyes, w^as smiling on her very tenderly. 
She was softened that evening. Perhaps it 
was her real nature, disclosed for a few 
genial moments, generally hidden under 
films of reserve or pride — the veil of the 
flesh. 

“I think she does like her old granny,” 
said Lady Alice, with a gentle little laugh ; 
one thin hand on her shoulder, the other 
smoothing back her thick girlish tresses. 

“ I do love you, granny ; you were always 
so good to me, and j^ou are so — so fond of 
me. Now, you are tired, darling ; you must 
take a little wine — here is Mrs. Sinnott com- 
ing — Mrs. Sinnott.” 

“ No, dear, no wine ; Pm very well. I 
wish to see Mrs. Sinnott, though. She’s 
3^our new housekeeper, is not she ?” 

“ Yes ; and I’m so glad poor, good old 
Donnie Gwynn is with 3^011. You know she 
would not stay ; but our new housekeeper is, 
I’m told, a very good creature too. Grand 
mamma wants to speak to you, Mrs. Sinnott.” 

Lady Alice by this time had entered the 
dressing-room, three sides of which, project- 
ing like a truncated bastion, formed a great 
window, which made it, for its size, the best 
lighted in the house. In the w’^all at the 
right, close to this entrance, is the door 
which admits to the green chamber ; in the 


46 


GUY DEYERELL. 


opposite wall, out nearer the window, a door 
leading across the end of the hatchment-gal- 
lery, with its large high window, by a little 
passage, screened off by a low oak partition, 
and admitting to a bed-room on the opposite 
side of the gallery. 

In the middle of the Window dressing- 
room stood Lady Alice, and looked round re- 
gretfully, and said to herself, with a little 
shake of the head — 

“ Yes, yes, poor thing !” 

She was thinking of poor Lady Marlowe, 
whom, with her usual perversity,, although a 
step-daughter, she had loved very tenderly, 
and who in her* last illness had tenanted 
these rooms, in which, seventeen years ago, 
this old lady had sat beside her and soothed 
her sickness, and by her tenderness, no doubt, 
softened those untold troubles which gath- 
ered about her bed as death drew near. 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Sinnott ?” said 
statel}’- Lady Alice, recovering her dry and 
lofty manner. 

“ Lady Alice Redcliffe, my grandmamma,” 
said Beatrix, in an underton e"d introduction, 
in the housekeeperis ear. 

Mrs. Sinnott made a fussy little courtes}^ 

“ Your ladyship’s apartments, which is at 
the other end of the gallery, please, is quite 
ready, my lady.” 

“ I don’t mean to have those rooms, though 
— that’s the reason I sent for you — please 
read this note, it is from Sir Jekyl Marlowe. 
By-the-bye, is your master at home ?” 

“ No, he was out.” 

“ Well, be so good as to read this.” 

And Lady Alice placed Beatrix’s note of 
invitation in Mrs. Sinnott’s hand, and pointed 
to a passage in the autograph of Sir Jekyl, 
which spoke thus : 

P. S. — Do come, dearest little mamma, and 
you shall command everything. Choose your 
own apartments and hours, and, in short, rule 
us all. With all my worldly goods I thee en- 
dow, and place Mrs. Sinnott at your orders.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Sinnott, I choose these apart- 
ments, if you please,” said Lady Alice, sitting 
down stiffly, and thereby taking possession. 

“ Very well, my lady,” said Mrs. Sinnott, 
dropping another courtesy ; but her sharp red 
nose and little black eyes looked sceptical 
and uneasy ; “ and I suppose. Miss,” here she 
paused, looking at Beatrix. 

“ You are to do whatever Lady Alice di- 
rects,” said the young lady. 

“ This here room, you know. Miss, is the 
dressing-room properly of the green chamber.” 

“ Lady Jane does not use it, though ?” re- 
plied the new visitor. 

“ But the General, when he comes back,” 
insinuated Mrs. Sinnott. 

“ Of course, he shall have it. I’ll remove 
then ; but in the meantime, liking these 
rooms, from old remembrances, best of any, 

I will occupy them, Beatrix ; this as a dress- 
ing-room and the apartment there as bed- 
room. I hope I don’t give jmu a great deal 
of trouble,” added Lady Alice, addressing 
the housekeeper, with an air that plainly said 
that she did not care a pin whether she did 
or not. 


So this point was settled, and Lady Alicd 
sent for her maid and her boxes ; and rising, 
she approached the door of the green cham- 
ber, and pointing to it, said to Beatrix— 

“And so Lady Jane has this room. Do 
you like her, Beatrix ?” 

“ I can’t say I know her, grandmamma.” 

“ No, I dare say not. It is a large room 
— too large for my notion of a cheerful bed- 
room.” 

The old lady drew near, and knocked. 

“ She’s not there ?” 

“ No she’s in the terrace-garden.” 

Lady Alice pushed the door open and 
looked in. 

“ A very long room. That room is longer 
than my drawing room at Wardlock, and that 
is five and thirty feet long. Dispial, I say — 
though so much light, and that portrait — Sir 
Harry smirking there. What a look of du- 
plicity in that face ! He was an old man 
when I can remember him ; an old beau ; a 
wicked old man, rough and whitened ; he 
used to paint under his eyelashes, and had, 
they said, nine or ten sets of false teeth, and 
always wore a black curled wig that made 
his contracted countenance more narrow. 
There were such lines of cunning and mean- 
ness about his eyes, actually dressing one an- 
other. Jekyl hated him, I think. I don’t 
think anybody but a fool could have really 
liked him ; he was so curiously/ selfish, and so 
contemptible ; he was attempting the life of a 
wicked young man at seventy.” 

Lady Alice had been speaking as it w^ere 
in soliloquy, staring drearily on the clever 
portrait in gold lace and ruffles, stricken by 
the spell of that painted canvas into a dream. 

“ Your grandpapa, my dear, w^as not a good 
man ; and I believe he injured my poor son 
irreparably, and your father. Well — these 
things, though never forgotten, are best not 
spoken of when people » happen to be con- 
nected. For the sake of others we bear our 
pain in silence ; but the heart knoweth its 
own bitterness.” 

And so saying, the old lady drew back 
from the threshold of Lady Jane’s apartment, 
and closed the door with a stern countenance. 


CHAPTER XX. 

AN ALTERCATION. 

Almost at the same moment Sir Jekyl 
entered the hexagon, or, as it w^as more 
pleasantly called, the Window dressing-room 
>from the lobby. He was quite radiant, and, 
in that w^arm evening light, struck Lady 
Alice as looking quite marvellously j^outhful. 

“ Well, Jekyl Marlowe, you see you have 
brought me here at last,” said the old lady, 
extending her hand stiffly, like a w^ooden 
marionette, her thin elbow" making a right 
angle. 

“ So I have ; and I shall always think the 
better of my eloquence for having prevailed. 
You’re a thousand times welcome, and not 
tired, I hope ; the journey is not much, after 
all.” 


GUY DEVERELL. 


47 


“Thanks; no, the distance is not much, 
the fatigue nothing,”^ said Lady Alice, draw- 
ing her fingers horizontally back from his 
hospitable pressure. “ But it is not always 
distance that separates people, or fatigue that 
depresses one.” 

“ No, of course ; fift}' things ; rheumatism, 
temper, hatred, affliction ; and I am so de- 
lighted to see you ! Trixie, dear, would not 

randmamma like to see her room ? Send 

)r” 

“ Thank you, I mean to stay here,” said 
Lady Alice. 

“ Il£re P' echoed Sir Jekyl, with a rather 
bewildered smile. 

“ I avail myself of the privilege you give 
me ; your postscript to Beatrix’s note, you 
know. You tell me there to choose what 
rooms I like best,” said the old lady, dryly, 
at the same time drawing her bag toward 
her, that she might be ready to put the 
docments in evidence, in case he should dis- 
pute it. 

“Oh! did I?” said the Baronet, wit?\ the 
same faint smile. 

Lady Alice nodded, and then threw back 
her head challenging contradiction by a su- 
percilious stare, her hand firmly upon the 
bag as before. 

“ But this room, you know ; it’s anything 
but a comfortable one — don’t you think?” 
said Sir Jekyl. 

“ I like it,” said the inflexible old lady, sit- 
ting down. 

“ And I’m afraid there’s a little difflculty,” 
he continued, not minding. “ For this is 
General Lennox’s dressing room. Don’t you 
think it might be awkward ?” and he chuck- 
led agreeably. 

“ General Lennox is absent in London on 
business,” said Lady Alice, grim as an old 
Diana ; “ and Jane does not use it, and there 
can be no intelligible objection to my having 
it in his absence.” 

There was a little smile, that yet was not 
a smile, and a slight play about Sir Jekyl’ s 
nostrils, as he listened to this speech. They 
came when he was vicious; but with a flush, 
he commanded himself, and only laughed 
slightly, and said — 

“It is really hardly a concern of mine, 
provided my guests are happy. You don’t 
mean to have your bed into this room, do 
you ?” 

“ I mean to sleep tliere^' she replied, drily, 
stabbing wdth her long forefinger toward the 
door on the opposite side of the room. 

“ Well, I can only say I’d have fancied, for 
other reasons, these the very last rooms in 
the house you would have chosen — particu- 
larly as this really belongs to the green cham- 
ber. However, you and Lady Jane can ar- 
range that between you. You’d have been 
very comfortable where we would have put 
you, and you’ll be very 'W?icomfortable here. 
I’m afraid; but perhaps I’m not making 
allowance for the affection you have for Lady 
Jane, the length of time that has passed since 
you’ve seen her, and the pleasure of being so 
neai her.” 

There was an agreeable irony in this ; for 


the Baronet knew that they had never 
agreed very well together, and • that neither 
spoke very handsomely of the other behind 
her back. At the same time this w^as no con- 
clusive proof of unkindness on Lady Alice’s 
part, for her good -will sometimes show^ed 
itself under strange and uncomfortable dis- 
guises. 

“ Beatrix, dear, I hope they are seeing to 
your grandmamma’s room ; and you’ll want 
candles, it is growing dark. Altogether I’m 
afraid you’re very uncomfortable, little 
mother ; but if you prefer it, you know, of 
course I’m silent.” 

With these words he kissed the old lady’s 
chilly cheek, and vanished. 

As he ran down the darkening stairs the 
Baronet was smiling mischievously ; and 
wfflen, having made his long straight journey 
to the foot of the back stairs, he reascended, 
and passing through the two little ante- 
rooms, entered his own homely bed-chamber, 
and looked at his handsome and wonderfully 
preserved face in the glass, he laughed out- 
right two or three comfortable explosions at 
intervals, and was evidently enjoying some 
fun in anticipation. 

When, a few minutes later, that proud sad 
beauty. Lady Jane, followed by her maid, 
sailed rustling into the Window dressing- 
room — I call it so in iDreference — and there 
saw, by the light of a pair of wax candles, a 
stately figure seated on the sofa at the furth- 
er end in grey silk draperies, with its feet on 
a boss, she paused in an attitude of sublime 
surprise, with just a gleam of defiance in it. 

“ How d’ y’ do, Jennie, my dear?” said a 
voice, on which as on the tones of an old 
piano, a few years had told a good deal, but, 
which she recognized with some little sur-’ 
prise, for notwithstanding Lady Alice’s note 
accepting the Baronet’s invitation, he had 
talked and thought of her actually coming to 
Marlowe as a very unlikely occurrence in- 
deed. 

“ Oh ! oh ! Lady Alice Redcliffe 1” ex- 
claimed the young wife, setting down her 
bed-room candle, and advancing with a tran- 
sitory smile to her old kinswoman, who half 
rose from her throne and kissed her on the 
cheek as she stopped to meet her salutation. 
“ You have only arrived a few minutes ; I 
saw your carriage going round from the 
door.” 

“ About forty minutes— hardly an hour. 
How you have filled up, Jane ; you’re quite 
an imposing figure since I saw you. I don’t 
think it unbecoming : your embonpoint does 
very well ?” 

‘ Very well — and you ?” 

“ I’m pretty well, dear, a good deal fa- 
tigued ; and so you’re a wife, Jennie, and very 
happy, I hope.” 

“ I can’t say I have anything to trouble me. 
I am quite happy, that is, as happy as other 
people, I suppose.” 

“ I hear nothing but praises of your hus- 
band. I shall be so happy to make his ac- 
quaintance,’' continued Lady Alice. 

“ He had to go up town about business this 
morning, but he’s to return very soon.” 


48 


GUY DEVERELL, 


“ How soon, dear ?’• 

“ In a day or two,” answerea tlie young 
vvdfe. 

“To-morrow?” inquired Lady Alice, 
drily. 

“ Or next day,” rejoined Lady Jane, with 
a little stare. 

“ Do you really^ my dear Jane, expect him 
here the day after to-morrow ?” 

“ He said he should be detained only a day 
or two in town.” 

Old Lady Alice shook her incredulous head, 
looking straight before her. 

“ I don’t think he can have said, that, Jane 
for he wrote to a friend of mine, the day be- 
fore yesterday, mentioning that he should be 
detained by business at least a week.” 

“ Oh ! did he ?” 

“Yes, and Jekyl Marlowe, I dare say, 
thinks he will be kept there longer^ 

“ I should fancy 1 am a better opinion, 
rather, upon that point, than Sir Jekyl Mar- 
lowe,” said Lady Jane, loftily, and perhaps a 
little angrily. 

The old lady, -with closed lips, at this made 
a little nod, wliich might mean anything. 

“ And I can’t conceive how it can concern 
Sir Jekyl, or even you. Lady Alice, what bu- 
siness my husband may have in town.” 

It was* odd how sharp they were growing 
upon this point. 

“ Well, Sir Jekyl’s another thing ; but me^ 
of course, it does concern, because I shall 
have to give him up his room again when he 
returns.” 

“ What room ?” inquired Lady Jane hon- 
estly puzzled. 

“ This room,” answered the old lady, like 
one conscious that she drops, with the word, 
a gage of battle. 

“ But this is my room.” 

“ You don’t use it. Lady Jane. I wish to 
occupy it. I shall of course, give it up on 
your husband’s return ; in the meantime I 
deprive you of nothing by taking it. Do I ?” 

“ That’s not the question. Lady Alice. It 
is my room — it is my dressing-voom—^n^ I 
don’t mean to give it up to any one. You 
are the last person on earth who would allow 
me to take such a liberty with you. I don’t 
understand it. 

“ Don’t be excited, my dear Jenny,” said 
Lady Alice — an exhortation sometimes a little 
inconsistently administered by members of 
her admirable sex when they are themselves 
most exciting. 

“ I’m not in the least excited. Lady Alice ; 
but I’ve had a note from you,” said Lady 
Jane, in rather a choking key. 

“ You have,” acquiesced her senior. 

“ And I connect your extraordinary intru- 
sion here, with it.’’ 

Lady Alice nodded. 

“ I do, and — and I’m right. You mean to 
insult me. It’s a shame — an outrage. What 
do you mean, madam ?” 

“I’d have you to remember, Jane Chet- 
wynd (the altercation obliterated her newly 
acquired name of Lennox), that I am your 
relation and your senior.” 

“Yes, you’re my cousin, and my senior by! 


fifty years ; but an old woman may be veiy 
impertinent to a j^oung one.” 

“ Compose yourself, if you please, compose 
yourself,” said Lady Alice, in the same phi- 
losophic vein, but with color a little heigh- 
tened. 

“ I don’t know’ what you mean — you’re a 
disgraceful old woman. I’ll complain to my 
husband, and I’ll tell Sir Jekyl Marlowe. 
Either you or I must leave this house to- 
night,” declaimed Lady Jane, with a most 
beautiful blush, and eyes flashing lurid light- 
nings. 

“ You forget yourself, my dear,” said the 
old lady, rising grimly, and confronting her. 

“ Ho, I don’t, but you do. It’s perfectly 
disgusting and intolerable,” cried Lady Jane, 
with a stamp. 

“ One moment, if you please — j^ou can af- 
ford to listen for one moment, I suppose,” 
said the old hidy, in a very low, dry tone, lay- 
ing two of her lean fingers upon the snowy 
arm of the beautiful young lady, who, with a 
haughty contraction and an uplifted head, 
withdrew it fiercely from her touch. “ You 
forget your maid, I think. You had better 
tell her to withdraw, hadn’t you ?” 

“ I don’t care ; why should I ?” said Lady 
Jane, in a high key. 

“ Beatrix, dear, run into my bed-room for 
a moment,” said “ Granny ” to that distressed 
and perplexed young lady, who, accustomed 
to obey, instantly withdrew. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

LADY ALICE IN BED. 

“ We may be alone together, if you choose 
it ; if not, 1 can’t help it,” said Lady Alice, 
in a very low and impressive key. 

“ Well, it’s nothing to me,” said Lady Jane, 
more calmly and sullenly — “ nothing at all — 
but as you insist — Cecile, you may go for a 
few minutes.” 

This permission was communicated sulki- 
ly, in French. 

“ How, Jane, you shall hear me,” said the 
old lady, so soon as the maid had disappear- 
ed and the doors were shut ; “ you must hear 
me with patience, if not with respect — that I 
don’t expect — but remember you have no 
mother, and I am an old woman and your 
kinswoman, and it is my duty to speak 

“I’m rather tired standing,” interrupted 
Lady Jane, in a suppressed passion. “ Be- 
sides, you say you don’t want to be overheard, 
and you can’t know who may be on the lob- 
hey therej^ and she pointed with her jewelled 
finger at the door. “ I’ll go into my bed- 
room, if you please ; and I have not slightest 
objection to hear anything you can possibly 
say. Don’t fancy I’m the least afraid of you.’’ 

Saying which Lady Jane, taking up her 
bed-room candle, rustled out of the room, 
without so much as looking over her should- 
er to see whether the prophetess was follow- 
ing. 

She did follow, and I dare say her lecture 
was not mitigated by Lady Jane’s rudeness. 


GUY DEYERELL. 


That young lady was lighting her candles on 
her dressing-table when her kinswoman en- 
tered and shut the door without an invita- 
tion. She then seated herself serenely, and 
cleared her voice. 

“ I live very much out of the world — in 
fact, quite to myself ; but I learn occasionally 
what my relations are doing; and I was 
grieved, Jane, to hear a great deal that was 
very unpleasant, to say the least, about you.” 

Something between a smile and a laugh 
was her only answer. 

“ Yes, extremely foolish, I don’t, of 
course, say there was anything wicked, but 
very foolish and reckless. I know perfectly 
how you were talked of ; and I know also 
why you married that excellent but old 
man, General Lennox.” 

“ I don’t think anyone talked about me. 
Everj'-body is talked about. There has 
been enough of this rubbish. I burnt your 
odious letter,” broke in Lady Jane, inco- 
herently. 

“ And would, no doubt, burn the writer, 
if jmu could.” 

As there was no disclaimer, Lady Alice 
resumed. 

“ Now, Jane, you have . married a 
most respectable old gentleman ; I dare 
say you have nothing on earth to con- 
ceal from him — remember I’ve said all 
along I don’t suppose there is — but as the 
young wife of an old man, you ought to 
remember how very delicate your position 
is.” 

“ AYhat do you mean ?” 

“ I mean, generally^' answered the old 
lady, oracularly. 

“ I do declare this is perfectly insuffer- 
able ! What’s the meaning of this lecture ? 
I’m as little likely, madam, as you are to 
disgrace myself. You’ll please to walk out 
of my room.” 

“ And how dare you talk to me in that 
way, young lady ; how dare you attempt to 
hector me like your maid there ?” broke out 
old Lady Alice, suddenly losing her self- 
command. “ You know what I mean, and 
what’s more, I do, too. We both know it — 
you a young bride — what does Jekyl Mar- 
lowe invite you down here for ? Do you 
think I imagine he cares twopence about 
your stupid old husband, and that I don’t 
know he was once making love to you ? Of 
course I do; and I’ll have nothing of the 
sort here — and that’s the reason I’ve come, 
and that’s why I’m in that dressing-room, 
and that’s why I’ll write to your husband, 
so sure as you give me the slightest uneasi- 
ness ; and you had better think well what 
you do.” 

The old lady in a towering passion, with a 
fierce lustre in her cheeks, and eyes flashing 
lightning over the face of her opponent, 
vanished from the room. 

Lady Alice had crossed the disputed 
territory of the Window dressing-room, and 
found herself in her elected bed-i'oom before 
she had come to herself. She saw Lady 
Jane’s fice still before her, with the lurid 
astonishment and fear, w’hite and sharp, 
4 


49 

on it, as when she had threatened a letter 
to General Lennox. 

She sat down a little stunned and con- 
fused about the whole thing, incensed and 
disgusted with Lady Jane, confirmed in 
her suspicion by a look she did not like 
in that young lady’s face, and which her 
peroration had called up. She. did not hear 
the shrilly rejoinder that pursued her 
through the shut door. She had given way 
to a burst of passion, and felt a little hot 
and deaf and giddy. 

When the party assembled at dinner Lady 
Jane exerted herself more than usual. She 
was agreeable, and even talkative, and her 
color had not been so brillliant since her 
arrival. She sat next to Guy Strangways, 
and old Lady Alice at the other side of the 
table did not look triumphant, but sick and 
sad ; and to look at the two ladies you would 
have set her down as the defeated and 
broken-spirited, and Lady Jane as the victrix 
in the late encounter. ’ 

The conversation at this end of the table 
resembled a dance, in which sometimes each 
man sets to his partner and turns her rounds 
so that the whole company is frisking and 
spinning together ; sometimes two perform ; 
sometimes a caxalier seul. Thus was it 
with the talk of this section of the dinner- 
table, above the salt, at which the chief 
people were seated. 

“I’ve just been asked by Lady Blunket 
how many miles it is to Wardlock, and I’m 
ashamed to say I can’t answer her,” cried 
Sir Jekyl diagonally to Lady Alice, so as to 
cut off four people at his left band, whose 
conversation being at the moment in a pre- 
carious way, forthwith expired, and the 
Baronet and his mother-in-law were left in 
possession of this part of the stage. 

The old lady, as I have said, looked ill 
and very tired, and as if she had grown all 
at once very old ; and instead of answering, 
she only nodded once or twice, and signed 
across the table to Lady Jane. 

“ Oh ! I forgot,” said Sir Jekyl ; “ you 
know Wardlock and all our distances, don't 
you, Lady Jane— can you tell me ?” 

“ I don’t remember,” said Lady Jane, 
hardly turning toward him ; “ ten or twelve 
miles — is not it? it may be a good deal 
more. I don’t really recollect and this 
was uttered with an air which plainly said, 

“ I don’t really care.” 

“ I generally ride my visits, and a mile or 
two more or less does not signify ; but one 
ought to know all the distances for thirty 
miles round; you don’t know otherwise 
who’s your neighbor.” 

“ Do you think it an advantage to know 
that any particular person is your neigh 
bor?” inquired impertinent Drayton, with 
his light moustache, leaning back and look- 
ing drowsily into his glasses aff.er his 
wont. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Drayton, the country without 
neighbors — how dreadful !” exclaimed Miss 
Blunket. “ Existence without friends.” 

“ Friends— bosh !” said Drayton, confi- 
dentially, to his wine. 


50 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ There’s Drayton scouting friendship, 
the young cynic !” cried Sir Jekyl. “ Do 
call him \o order, Lady Jane ” 

“ I rather incline to agree mth Mr. Dray- 
ton,” said Lady Jane, coldly. 

“Do you mean to say you have no 
friends said Sir Jekyl, in well-bred amaze- 
ment. 

“ Quite the contrary — I have too many.” 

“ Come — that’s a new complaint. Per- 
haps they are very new friends?” inquired 
the Baronet. 

“ Some of them very old, indeed ; but I’ve 
found that an old friend means only •an 
old person privileged to be impertinent.” 

Lady Jane utterej a musical little laugh 
that was very icy as she spoke, and her eye 
flashed a single insolent glance at old Lady 
Alice. 

At another time perhaps a retort would not 
have been wanting, but now the old woman’s 
eye returned but a wandering look, and her 
face expressed nothing but apathy and sad- 
ness. 

“ Grandmmama, dear. I’m afraid you are 
very much tired,” whispered Beatrix when 
they reached the drawing-room, sitting be- 
side her after she had made her comfortable 
on a sofa with cushions to her back ; “ you 
would be better lying down, I think.” 

“ No, dear — no, darling. I think in a few 
minutes I’ll go to my room. I’m not very 
w^ell. I’m tired — vei^y tired.” 

And poor old granny, who was speaking 
very gently, and looking very pale and sunk- 
en, sighed deeply — it was almost a moan. 

Beatrix was growing very much alarmed, 
and accompanied, or rather assisted, the old 
lady up to the room, where, aided by her and 
her maid, she got to her bed in silence, sigh- 
ing deeply now and then. 

She had not been long there when she 
buast into tears ; and after a violent par- 
oxysm she beckoned to Beatrix, and threw 
her lean old arms about her neck, saying — 

“ I’m sorry I came, child ; I don’t know 
what to think. I’m too old to bear this agi- 
tation — it will kill me.” 

Then she wept more quietly, and kissed 
Beatrix, and whispered, “ Send her out of the 
room — let her wait in the dressing-room.” 

The maid was sitting at the further end of 
the apartment, and the old lady was too 
feeble to raise her voice so as to be heard 
there. So soon as her maid had withdrawn 
Lady Alice said — 

“ Sit by me, Beatrix, darling. I am very 
nervous, and tell me who is that young man 
who sat beside Jane Lennox at dinner.” 

As she ended her little speech Lady Alice, 
who, though I dare say actually ill enough, 
yet did not want to lose for all the exhaustion 
she fancied beside, closed her eyelids, and 
leaned a little back on her pillow motionless. 
This prevented her seeing that if she were 
nervous Beatrix was so also, though in anoth- 
er way, for her color was heightened very 
prettily as she answered. 

“ You mean the tall, slight young man at 
Lady Jane’s right ?” inquired Beatrix. 

“ That beautiful but melancholy looking 


young man whom we saw at Wardlock 
Church,” ssid Lady Alice, forgetting for the 
moment that she had never divulged the re- 
sult of her observations from the gallery to 
any mortal but Sir Jekyl. Beatrix, who for- 
got nothing, and knew that her brief walk at 
Wardlock with that young gentleman had 
nof been confessed to anyone, was con- 
founded on hearing herself thus, as she im- 
agined, taxed with her secret. 

She was not more secret than young ladies 
generally are ; but whom could she have 
told at Wardlock? which of the old women 
of that time-honored sisterhood was she to 
have invited to talk romance with her ? and 
now she felt very guilty, and was blushing in 
silent confusion at the pearl ring On her 
pretty, slender Anger, not knowing what to 
answer, or how to begin the confession 
which she fancied her grandmamma was 
about to extort. 

Her grandmamma, however, relieved her 
on a sudden by saying — 

“ I forgot, dear, I told you nothing of that 
dreadful day at Wardlock Church, the day I 
was so ill. I told your papa only ; but the 
young man is here, and I may as well tell 
you now that he bears a supernatural like- 
ness to my poor lost darling. Jekyl knew 
how it affected me, and he never told me. It 
was so like Jekyl. I think, dear, I should 
not have come here at all had I known that 
dreadful young man was here.” 

“ Dreadful ! How is he dreadful ?” ex- 
claimed Beatrix. 

“ From his likeness to my lost darling — 
my dear boy — my poor, precious, murdered 
Guy,” answered the old lady, lying back, 
and looking straight toward the ceiling with 
upturned eyes and clasped hands. She re- 
peated— “ Oh ! Guy— Guy—Guy— -my poor 
child !” 

She looked like a dying nun praying to 
her patron saint. 

“ His name is Strangways — Mr. Guy 
Strangways,” said Beatrix. 

“ Ah, yes, darling ! Guy was the name of 
my dear boy, and Strangways was the name 
of his companion — an evil companion, I dare 
say.” 

Beatrix knew that the young man whom 
her grandmamma mourned had fallen in a 
duel, and that, reasonably or unreasonably, 
her father was blamed in the matter. More 
than this she had never heard. Lady Alice 
had made her acquainted with thus much ; 
but with preambles so awful that she had 
never dared to open the subject lierself, or to 
question her “ Granny” beyond the point at 
which her disclosure had stopped. 

That somehow it reflected on Sir Jekyl 
prevented her from inquiring of any servant, 
except old Donica, who met her curiosity 
with a sound jobation, and told her if ever 
she plagued her with questions about family 
misfortunes like that, she would speak to 
Sir Jekyl about it. Thus Beatrix only knew 
how Guy Devcrell had died — that her grand- 
mamma chose to believe he- had been mur 
dered, and insisted beside in blaming her ft 
ther. Sir Jekyl somehow for the catastroph 


GUY DEVERELL. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

HOW EVEHYTHING WENT ON. 

“ Go down, dear, to your company, ” re- 
sumed Lady Alice, sadly ; “ they will miss 
you. And tell your father, when he comes 
; to the drawing-room, I wish to see him, and 
i won’t detain him long.” 
i So they parted, and a little later Sir Jekyl 
arrived with a knock at the old lady’s bed- 
room door. 

“ Come in — oh ! yes— Jekyl— well, I’ve 
only a word to say. Sit down a moment at 
the bedside.” 

“ And how do you feel now, you dear old 
soul ?” inquired the Baronet, cheerfully. He 
looked strong and florid, as gentlemen do 
after dinner, with a genial air of content- 
ment, and a fragrance of his wonderful 
sherry about him ; all which seemed some- 
how brutal to the nervous old lady. 

“ Wonderfully, considering the surprise 
you had prepared for me, and which might 
as well have killed me as not,” she made 
answer. 

“I know, to be sure — Strangways, you 
mean. Egad! I forgot. Trixie ought to 
have told you.” 

“ You ought to have told me. I don’t 
think I should have come here, J ekyl, had I 
known it.” 

“ If I had known thought Sir Jekyl, 
with a regretful pang, “ I’d have made* a 
point of telling you.” ""But he said aloud — 

“ Yes. It was a sotim ; but i’ve got over 
the likeness so completely that I forgot how 
it agitated you. But I ought to tell you 
they have no connexion with the family — 
none in the world. Pelter and Crowe, you 
know — devilish sharp dogs — my lawyers in 
town— they are regular detectives, by Jove ! 
and know everything — and particularly have 
had for years a steady eye upon them and 
their movements ; and I have had a most de- 
cided letter from them, assuring me that 
there has not been the slightest movement in 
that quarter, and therefore there is, absolute- 
ly, as I told you from tlie first, nothing in it.” 

“ And what Deverells are now living ?” in- 
quired the old lady, very pale. 

Two flrst cousins, they tell me — old fel- 
lows now ; and one of them has a son or two ; 
but not one called Guy, and none answering- 
this description, you see ; and neither have a 
shadow of claim, or ever pretended ; and as 
for that unfortunate accident” 

“ Pray spare me,” said the old lady grimly. 

“ Well, they did not care a brass farthing 
about the poor fellow, so they would never 
move to give me trouble in that matter ; and, 
in Tact, people never do stir in law, and put 
themselves to serious expense, purely for a 
sentiment — even a bad one.” 

“ I remember some years ago you were very 
much alarmed, Jekyl.” 

“No, I was not. Wlip the plague says 
that ? There’s nothing, thank Heaven, I need 
fear. One does not like to be worried with 
lawsuits — that’s all — though there is and can 
be no real danger in them.” 


51 

“ And was it from these cousins you appre- 
hended lawsuits?” inquired Lady Alice. 

“ No, not exactly — no, not at all. I be- 
lieve-that fellow Strai^ways — that fellow that 
used to live on poor Guy — I fanc^^ he was the 
mover of it — indeed I know he was.” 

“ What did they proceed for ?’' asked the 
old lady. “ You never told me — you are so 
secret, Jekyl.” 

“ Thej^ did not proceed at all — how could 
I ? Their attorneys had cases before counsel 
affecting me — that’s all I ever heard ; and 
they say now it was all Strangways’ doing — 
that is, Pelter and Crowe say so. I wish I 
were secret.” 

Old Lady Alice here heaved a deep groan, 
and said, not with asperity, but with a fa- 
tigued abhorrence — 

“ Go away ; I wonder I can bear you near 
me.” 

“ Thank you very much,” said the 
Baronet, rising, with one of his pleasant 
chuckles. 

“ I can’t tell you how glad I am to have 
you here, and I know you’ll be very glad to 
see me in the morning, when you are a little 
rested.” 

So he kissed the tips of his fingers and 
touched them playfully to the back of her 
thin hand, which she withdrew with a little 
frown, as if they chilled her. And by her di- 
rection he called in her maid, whom he ask- 
ed very smilingly how she did, and welcomed 
to Marlowe ; and she, though a little passe^ 
having heard the fame of Sir Jekyl, and 
many stories of his brilliant adventures, was 
very modest and fluttered on the occasion. 
And with another little petting speech to 
Lady Alice, the radiant Baronet withdrew. 

It is not to be supposed that Lady Alice’s 
tremors communicated themselves to Bea- 
trix. Was it possible to regard that hand- 
some, refined young man, who spoke in that 
low, sweet voice, and smiled so intelligently, 
and talked so pleasantly, and with that deli- 
cate flavor of romance at times, in the light 
of a goblin ? 

The gentlemen had made their whist-party. 
The Rev. Dives Marlowe was chatting to, not 
with Lady Jane, who sat listlessly on an ot- 
toman. That elderly girl. Miss Blunket, with 
the naive w’ays, the animated, smiling, and 
rather malevolent countenance, had secured 
little Linnett, who bore his imprisonment im- 
patiently and wearily it must be owned. 
When Miss Blunket was enthusiastic it was 
all very well ; but her playfulness was wick-^ 
ed, and her satire gaily vitriolic. 

“ Mr. Marlowe is fascinated, don’t you 
think ?” she inquired of harmless little Lin- 
nett, glancing with an arch flash of her fierce 
eyes at the Rev. Dives. 

“ She’s awfully handsome,” said Linnett, 
honestly. 

“ Oh, dear, you wicked creature, you can’t 
think I meant that. She is some kind of 
cousin, I think — is not she ? And her hus- 
band has that great living — what’s its name ? 
— and no relation in the Church ; and Lady 
Jane, they say, rules him — and Sir Jekyl, 
some people say, rules her.” 


62 


GUY DEVERELL. 


Linnett returned her arch glance with an 
honest stare of surprise. 

“ I had no idea of that, egad.” said he. 

“ She thinks him so wise in all worldly 
matters, you know ; and ‘people in London 
fancied she would have been the second Lady 
Marlowe, if she had not met General Lennox 
just at a critical time, and fallen in love with 
him and as she said this she laughed 

‘‘ Really !” exclaimed Linnett ; and he sur- 
veyed Lady Jane in this new light wonder- 
ingly. 

“ I really don’t know ; I heard it said mere- 
ly ; but very likely, you know, it is not true,” 
she answered with an artless giggle. 

“ I knew you were quizzing— though, by 
Jove, you did sell me at first ; but I really 
think Sir Jekyl’s a little spoony on that pret- 
ty little Mrs. Maberly. Is she a widow ?” 

“ Oh, dear, no— at least, not quite ; she has 
a husband in India, but then, poor man, he’s 
so little in the way she need hardly wish him 
dead.” 

“ I said Linnett, looking at Mrs. Ma- 
berly with a grave interest. 

While Miss Blunket was entertaining and in- 
structing little Linnett with this sort of girl- 
ish chatter, and from the whist-table be- 
tween the deals, arose those critical discus- 
sions and reviews, relieved now and then by 
a joke from the Baronet, or from his partner, 
Colonel Doocey, at the piano, countenanced 
by old Lady Blanket, who had come to listen 
and remained to doze, Beatrix, her fingers 
still on the keys, was listening to young 
Strangways. 

There are times, lights, accidents, under 
which your handsome young people become 
incredibly more handsome, and this Guy 
Strangways now shared in that translated 
glory, as he leaned on the back of a tall ca,rv- 
ed chair, sometimes speaking, sometimes lis- 
tening. 

“ It is quite indescribable. Miss Marlowe, 
how your music interests me— I should say, 
haunts me. I thought at first it was because 
you loved ballad music, which I also love ; 
but it is not that-— it is something higher and 
more peculiar.” 

“ I am sure you were right at first, for I 
know I am a very indifferent musician,” said 
Beatrix, looking down under her long lashes 
on the keys over which the jewelled fingers 
of her right hand wandered with hardly a 
tinkle, just tracing dreamily one of those 
sweet melancholy airs which made in fancy 
^an accompaniment to the music of that 
young fellow’s words. 

How beautiful she looked, too, with eyes 
lowered and parted lips, and that listening 
smile — not quite a smile — drinking in with a 
strange rapture of pride and softness the fiat- 
teries which she refused and yet invited. 

“ It is something higher and mysterious, 
wdiich, perhaps, I shall never attempt to ex- 
plain, unless, indeed, I should risk talking 
very wildly — too wildly for you to under- 
stand, or, if you did, perhaps— to forgive.” 

“ You mentioned a Breton ballad you once 
heard,” said Beatrix, frightened, as girls will 
sometimes become whenever the hero of 


their happy hours oegins on a sudden to de- 
fine. 

Yes,’' he said, and the danger of the cri- 
sis was over. “ I wish so much I could re- 
member the air, you would so enter into its 
character, and make its wild unfathomable 
melancholy so beautifully touching in your 
clear contralto.” 

“ You must not flatter me ; I want to hear 
more of that ballad.” 

“ If flattery be to speak more highly than 
one thinks, who can flatter Miss Marlowe V” 
Again the crisis was menacing. “ Besides, 
I did not tell you we are leaving, I believe, in 
day or two, and on the eve of so near a de- 
parture, may I not improve the few happy 
moments that are left me, and be permitted 
the privilege of a leave-taking, to speak more 
frankly, and perhaps less wisely than one 
who is destined to be all his life a neighbor ?” 

“ Papa, I am sure, will be very sorry to 
hear that you and Monsieur Varbarriere are 
thinking of going so soon ; I must try, how- 
ever, to improve the time, and hear all you 
can tell me of those interesting people of 
Brittany.” 

“ Yes, they are. I will make them another 
visit — a sadder visit. Mademoiselle — for me a 
far more interesting one. You have taught 
me how to hear and see them. I never felt 
the spirit of Villemarque, or the romance 
and melancholy of that antique region, till I 
had the honor of knowing you.” 

“ My friends always laughed at me about 
Brittany. I suppose different people are in- 
terested by different subjects ; but I do not 
think any one could read at all about that 
part of the world and not be fascinated. You 
promised to tell all you remember of that 
Breton ballad.” 

“ Oh, yes ; the haunted lady, the beautiful 
lady, the heiress of Carlowel, now such a 
grand ruin, became enamored of a mysterious 
cavalier who wooed her ; but he was some- 
thing not of flesh and blood, but of the spirit 
world.” 

“ There is exactly such a legend, so far, at 
least, of a castle on the Rhine. I must show 
it to you. Do you read German ?” 

“ Yes, Mademoiselle.” 

“ And does the ballad end tragically ?” 

“ Most tragically. You shall hear.” 

“Where are you, G’\y?” in French, in- 
quired a deep ringing voice. 

And on the summons, Guy glanced over 
his shoulder, and replied, 

“ Oh,” exclaimed the same voice, “ I de- 
mand pardon. I am disturbing conversa- 
tion, I fear ; but an old man in want of as- 
sistance will be excused. I want my. road 
book, Guy, and you have got it. Pray, run 
up stairs and fetch it.” 

With great pleasure, of course, Guy 
Strangways ran up stairs to tumble over 
block-books, letters, diaries, and tlie general 
residuum of a half-emptied valise. 

Miss Beatrix played a spirited march, 
which awoke Lady Blunket, whom she had 
forgotten; and that interesting woman, to 
make up for lost time, entertained her with 
a history of the unreasonableness of Smidge, 


GUY DEVERELL. 


53 


her maid, and a variety of other minute 
afflictions, which, she assured Beatrix se- 
riously, disturbed her sleep. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DIVAN. 

That night Sir Jekyl led the gentlemen in 
a body to his outpost quarters, in the rear of 
civilization, where they enjoyed their cigars, 
brandy and water, and even “ swipes,” pro- 
digiously. It is a noble privilege to be so 
rich as Sir Jekyl Marlowe. The Jewish price 
for frankincence was thrice its own weight in 
gold. How much did that aromatic blue 
cano}>y that rolled dimly over this Turkish 
divan cost that off-handed Sybarite? How 
many scruples of fine gold were floating in 
that cloud ? 

Yarbarriere was in his way charmed with 
his excursion. He enjoyed the jokes and 
stories of the younkers, and the satiric slang 
and imperrturbable good humor of their 
host. The twinkle of his eye, from its deep 
cavern, and the suavity of his solemn fea- 
tures, testified to his profound enjoyment of 
a meeting to which he contributed, it must 
be owned, for his own share, little but smoke. 

In fact, he was veiy silent, very observant 
— observant of more things than the talk 
perhaps. 

All sorts of things were talked about. Of 
course, no end of horse and dog anecdote — 
something of wine, something of tobacco, 
something of the beauties of the opera and 
the stage, and those sad visions, the fallen 
angelic of the demimonde — something, but 
only the froth and sparkle of politics— light 
conjecture, and pungent scandal, in the spirit 
of gay satire and profligate comedy. 

“ He’s a bad dog, St. Evermore. Did not 
you hear that about the duel ?” said Drayton. 

“ What ?” asked the Baronet, with an un- 
conscious glance at Guy Strangways. 

“ He killed that French fool — what’s his 
name ? — unfairly, they say. There has been 
a letter or something in one of the Paris pa- 
pers about it. Fired before his time, I think, 
and very ill feeling against the English in 
consequence. 

“ Oh !” said the Baronet. 

“ But you know, interposed Doocey, who 
was an older clubman than Drayton, and re- 
membering further back, thought that sort 
of anecdote of the duel a little maladroit just 
then and there, “ St. Evermore has been 
talked about a good deal ; there were other 
things — that horse, you know ; and they say, 
by*Jove ! he was licked by Tromboni, at the 
wings of the opera, for what he called in- 
sulting his wife ; and Tromboni says he is a 
marquess, and devil knows what beside, at 
home, and wanted to fight, but St. Evermore 
wouldn’t, and took his licking.” 

“ lie’s not a nice fellow by any means ; 
but lie’s devilish good company — lots of good 
stories and capital cigars,” said Drayton. 

At this point M. Yarbarriere was seized 


with a fit of coughing ; and Sir Jekyl glanced 
sharply at him ; but no, he was not laughing. 

The conversation proceeded agreeably, and 
some charming stories were told of Sir Paul 
Blunket, who ivas not present ; and in less 
than an hour the party broke up and left Sir 
Jekyl to his solitary quarters. 

The Baronet bid his last guest good night 
at the threshold, and then shut his door and 
locked himself in. It was his custom, here, 
to sleep with his door locked. 

“ What was that fellow laughing at — Yar- 
barriere? I’m certain he was laughing. I 
never saw a fellow with so completely the 
cut of a charlatan. I’ll write to Charter is to- 
night. I must learn all about him.” 

Then Sir Jekyl yawned, and reflected what 
a fool Drayton was, what a fellow to talk, 
and what asses all fellows were at that age ; 
and, being sleepy, he postponed his letter to 
Charteris to the next morning, and proceed- 
ed to undress. 

Next morning w^as bright and pleasant, 
and he really did not see much good in 
writing the letter ; and so he put it off to a 
more convenient time. 

Shortly after the ladies had left the draw- 
ing-room for their bed-rooms, Beatrix, having 
looked in for a moment to her grandmam- 
ma’s room, and, with a kiss and a good night, 
taken wing again, there ^entered to Lady 
Alice, as the old plays express it, then com- 
posing herself for the night. Lady Jane’s 
maid, with — 

“ Please, my lady, my lady wants to know 
if your ladyship knows where her ladyship’s 
key may be ?” 

“ What key ?” 

“ The key of her bedchamber, please, my 
lady.” 

“ Oh ! the key of my dressing-room. Tell 
Lady Jane that I have got the key of the 
Window dressing-room, and mean to keep 
it,” replied the old lady, firmly. 

The maid executed a courtesy, and depart- 
ed ; and Lady Alice sank back again upon 
her pillow, with her eyes and mouth firmly 
closed, and the countenance of an old lady 
who is conscious of having done her duty 
upon one of her sex. 

About two minutes later there came a rus- 
tle of a dressing-gown and the patter of a 
swift slippered tread through the short pas- 
sage from the dressing-room, and, without a 
knock. Lady Jane, with a brilliant flush on 
her face, ruffled into the room, and, with 
her head very high, and flashing eyes, de- 
manded — 

“ Will you be so good. Lady Alice Red- 
cliffe, as to give me the key of my bedroom ?” 

To which Lady Alice, without opening 
her eyes, and with her hands mildly clasped, 
in the fashion of a mediaeval monument, 
over her breast, meekly and fimly made an- 
swer — 

“If you mean the ke}'- of the Window 
dressing-room, Jane, I have already told your 
maid that I mean to keep it !” 

“ And I’ll not leave the room till I get it,” 
cried Lady Jane, standing fiercely beside the 
monument. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


54 

“ Then you’ll not leave the room to-night, 
Jane,” replied the statuesque sufferer on the 
bed. 

“We shall that. Once more, will you 
give me my key or not ?” 

“ The key of my dressing-room door is in 
my possession, and I mean to keep it,” re- 
peated the old lady, with a provoking mild- 
ness. 

“ Yon shan’t, madam — you’ll do no such 
thing. You shall give up the key you have 
stolen. I’ll lose my life but I’ll make you.” 

“ Jane, Jane,” said the old lady, “ you are 
sadly changed for the worse since last I saw 
you.” 

“ And if yoii^re not, it’s only because there 
was no room for it. Sadly changed indeed — 
very true. I don’t suffer you to bully me as 
you used at Wardlock.” 

“ May Heaven forgive and pardon you !” 
ejaculated the old lady, with great severity, 
rising perpendicularly and raising both her 
eyes and hands. 

“ Keep your prayers for yourself, madam, 
and give me my key,” demanded the incensed 
young lady. 

“ I’ll do‘no such thing ; I’ll do as I said ; 
and I’ll pray how I please, ma’am,” retorted 
the suppliant, fiercely. 

“ Your prayers don’t signify twopence. 
You’ve the temper of a fiend, as all the world 
knows ; and no one can live in the same 
house with you,” rejoined Lady Jane. 

“ That’s a wicked lie ; my servants live all 
their days with me.” 5 

“ Because they know no one else wouid 
take them. But you’ve the temper of ^ fury. 
You haven’t a friend left, and every one 
hates you.” 

“ Oh! oh! oh!” moaned Lady Alice, sink- 
ing back, with her hand pressed to her heart 
piteously, and closing her eyes, as she recol- 
lected how ill she was. 

“ Ho ! dear me !” exclaimed Lady Jane, in 
high disdain. “ Had not you better restore 
my key before you die, old lady 

“ Jane !” exclaimed Lady Alice, recovering 
in an instant, “ have you no feeling— you 
know the state I’m in ; and you’re bent on 
killing me with your unfeeling brutality ?” 

“ You’re perfectly well, ma’am, and you 
look it. I wish I was half as strong ; you 
oblige me to come all this way, this bitter 
night, you odious old woman.” 

“ I see how it is, and why you want the 
key. A very little more, and I’ll write to 
General Lennox.” 

“ Do ; and he’ll horsewhip you.” 

Lady Jane herself was a little stunned at 
this speech, when she heard it from her own 
lips : and I think would have recalled it. 

“ Thank you, Jane ; I hope you’li remember 
that. Horsewhip me ! No doubt you wish 
it; but General Lennox is a gentleman, I 
hope, although he has married you ; and I 
don’t suppose he would murder a miserable 
old woman to gratify you.” 

You know perfectly what I mean — if you 
were a mun he would horsewhip you ; you 
have done nothing but insult me ever since 
you entered this house.” 


“ Thank 3^ou ; it’s quite plain. I shan’t 
forget it. I’ll ask him, when he comes, 
whether he’s in the habit of beating women. 

It is not usual, I believe, among British 
officers. It usen't at least ; but every thing’s 
getting on — young ladies, and, I suppose, old 
men — all getting on famously.” 

“ Give me my key, if you please ; and cease 
talking like a fool,” cried Lady Jane. 

“ And what do you want af that key ? 
Come, now, young lady, what is it ?” 

“ Idon’t choose to have my door lie open, 
and I won’t. I’ve no bolt to the inside, and 
I will have my key, madam.” 

“ If that’s your object, set j^our mind at 
ease. I’ll lock your door myself when you 
have got in your bed.” 

“ So that if the house takes fire I shall be 
burnt to death !” 

“ Pooh ! nonsense !” 

“ And if I am they’ll hang you^ I hope.” 

“ Thank you. Flogged and hanged !” 
And Lady Alice laughed an exceeding bitter 
laugh. “ But the wicked violence of your 
language and menaces shan’t deter me from 
the duty I’ve prescribed to myself. I’ll define 
my reasons if you like, and I’ll write as soon 
as you please to General Lennox.” 

“ I think you’re madi — I do, I assure 3^11. 
I’ll endure it for once, but depend on it I’ll 
complain to Sir Jekyl Marlowe, in my hus- 
band’s absence, in the morning ; and if this 
sort of thing is to go on, I had better leave 
the house forthwith — that’s all.” 

I And having uttered these dignified sen- 
tences with &coming emphasis, she sailed 
luridly away. 

“ Good night, Jane,” said Lady Alice, with # 
a dry serenity. 

“ Don’t dare, you insupportable old wo- 
man, to wish me good-night,” burst out Lady 
J ane, whisking round at the threshold. 

With which speech, having paused for a 
moment in defiance, she disappeared, leaving 
the door wide open, which is, perhaps, as an- 
noying as clapping it, and less vulgar. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GUY STRANGWAYS AND M, TARBAKRIERE 
CONVERSE. 

When M. Yarbarriere and his nephew this 
night sat down in their dressing-room, the 
elder man said — 

“ How do you like Sir Jekyl Marlowe ?” 

“A most agreeable host— verj lively- 
very hospitable,” answered Guy Strangwa3"s. 

“ Does it strike you that he is anxious 
about anything?” 

The young man looked surprised. 

“ No ; that is, I mean, he appears to me 
in excellent spirits. Perhaps, sir, I do not 
quite apprehend you ?” 

“Not unlikely,” said the old gentleman. 
“ He does not question you ?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Yet he suspects me, and I^ think sus- 
pects you,” observed M. Varbarriera 


GUY DEVERELL. 


55 


The young man looked pained, but said 
nothing. 

“ That room where poor Lady Marlowe 
was — was so shocked — the green chamber 
— it is connected with the misfortunes of 
your family.” 

“ How, sir ?” 

“ Those papers you have heard my law- 
yer mention as having been lost at Dubois’ 
Hotel in London, by your grandfather, it 
is my belief were lost in this house and in 
that room.” 

A gentleman smoking a cigar must be 
very much interested indeed when he re- 
moves his weed from his lips and rests the 
hand w^hose fingers hold it upon his knee, 
to the imminent risk of its going out while 
lie pauses and listens. 

“And how, sir, do 5^ou suppose this oc- 
curred — by what agency?” inquired the 
handsome young gentleman. 

“ The ghost,” answered M. Varbarriere, 
with a solemn sneer. 

Guy Strangways knew he could not be 
serious, although, looking on his counte- 
nance, he could discern there no certain 
trace of irony as he proceeded. 

“ Many years later, poor Lady Marlowe, 
entered that room late at night — her maid 
slept there, and she being ill, for a change, 
in the smaller room adjoining (you don’t 
know those rooms, but I have looked in at 
the door) — beheld what we call the ghost, 
and never smiled or held up her head after,” 
said the portly old gentleman between the 
pufis of his cigar. 

“ Beheld the ghost !’’ 

“ So they say, and I believe it — what 
they call tlie ghost.” 

“ Did she make an alarm or call her hus- 
band ?” 

“ Her husband slept in that remote room 
at the very back of the house, which, as 
you sec, he still occupies, quite out of hear- 
ing. You go down-stairs first, then up- 
stairs ; and as he slept the greater part of 
two hundred feet away from the front of 
the house, of course he was out of the 
question ;” and M. Varbarriere sneered again 
solemnly. 

“ A housekeeper named Gwynn, I am 
told, knows all about it, but I believe she 
is gone.” 

“ And do you really think, sir, that my 
grandfather lost those deeds here .?” 

“ I always thought so, and so I told your 
father, and my information got him into a 
bad scrape.” 

• “You don’t, I know, think it occurred 
supernaturally ?” said Guy, more and more 
bewildered. 

“ Supernaturally ; of course it was — how 
else could it be ?” answered the old gentle-, 
man, with a drowsy irony. “ That room 
has been haunted, as I have heard, by a 
devil from the time it was built, in* the 
reign of George II. Can you unagine why 
General Lennox was put to sleep there ?” 

The young man shook his head. The 
old one resumed his smoking, leaving his 
problem unsolved. 


“ It shall be my business to evoke and to 
lay that devil,” said the elderly gentleman, 
abruptl}^ 

“ Ought not Lady Jane Lennox to be 
warned if you really think there is any — 
any danger V' 

“ The danger is to General Lennox, as 
I suppose.” 

“ I don’t understand, sir.” 

“ Ho, you don’t — better not. I told your 
poor father my belief once, and it proved 
fatal knowledge to him. In the day that 
he ate thereof he died. Bah ! it is better 
to keep your mind to yourself until you 
have quite made it up — you understand? 
— and even then tiU the time for action 
has come, and not even then, unless you 
want help. Who will sum up the mischief 
one of those prating fellows does in a lifetime ?” 

The gentlemen were silent hereupon for a 
period which I may measure by half a cigar. 

“ That green chamber — it is* a hypocrite,” 
said the solemn old man, looking drowsily 
on the smoke that was ascending the chim- 
ney, into which he threw the butt-end of 
his cigar — “ mind you, hypocrite. I have 
my theory. But we will* not talk ; no — you 
will be less embarrassed, and 1 more useful, 
with this reserve. For the purpose I have 
in view I will do fifty things in which you 
could and would have no partnership. Will 
you peep into that letter. Monsieur ?” The 
ponderous gentleman grew dramatic here. 
“ Will you place your ear to that door, 
si I wus plait — your eye to that keyhole? 
Will you oblige me by bribing that domes- 
tic with five pounds sterling ? Bah 1 1 will 
be all ear, all eye — omnipresent, omniscient 
omnipotent ! — by all means for this end— 
ay, all means — what you call secret, shabby, 
blackguard and the sonorous voice of the 
old man, for the first time since his arrival, 
broke into a clangorous burst of laughter, 
which, subsiding into a sort of growl, died, 
at last quite away. The old gentleman’s 
countenance looked more thoughtful and a 
shade darker than he had seen it. Then 
rising, he stood with his back to the fire, 
and fumbled slowly at the heavy links of 
his watch-chain, like a ghostly monk telling 
his beads, while he gazed, in the abstraction 
of deep thought, on the face of the young 
man. 

Suddenly his face grew vigilant, his eyes 
lighted up, and some stern lines gathered 
about them, as he looked down full upon his 
nephew. 

“ Guy,” said he, “ you’ll keep your promise 
— your word — your oath — that not one sylla- 
ble of what passes between us is divulged to 
mortal, and that all those points on which I 
have enjoined reserve shall be held by you 
scrupulously secret.” 

Guy bowed his acquiescence. 

“ What nonsense was that going on at the 
piano to-night ? Well, you need not answer, 
but there must be no more of it. I won’t 
burden you with painful secrets. You will 
understand me hereafter ; but no more of 
that — observe me.” 

The old gentleman spoke this injunction 


56 


GUY DEVERELL. 


with a lowering nod, and that deliberate and 
peremptory emphasis to yrhich his metallic 
tones gave effect. 

Guy heard this, leaning in an unchanged 
attitude on his elbow over the chimney-piece, 
in silence and with dowmcast eyes. 

“Yes, Guy,” said the old man, walking 
suddenly up to him, and clapping his broad 
hand upon his shoulder, “ I will complete 
the wmrk I have begun for you. Have con- 
fidence in me, don’t mar it, and you shall 
know all, and after I am gone, perhaps ad- 
mire the zealous affection with which I 
labored in your interest. Good-night, and 
Heav^en bless you, dear Guy and so they 
parted for the night. 

Guy Strangways had all his life stood in 
awe of this reserved despotic uncle — kind, in- 
dulgent in matters of pleasure and of money, 
but habitually secret, and whenever he im- 
posed a command, tyrannical. Yet Guy felt 
that even here there was kindness ; and 
though he could not understand his plans, of 
his motives he could have no doubt. 

For M. Yarbarriere, indeed, his nephew 
had a singular sort of respect. More than 
one-half of his character was enveloped in 
total darkness to his eyes. Of the traits that 
were revealed some were positively evil. He 
knew, by just one or two proofs, that he was 
proud and vindictive, and could carry his re- 
venge for a long time, like a cold stone, in 
his sleeve. He could break out into a devil 
of a passion, too, on occasion ; he could be as 
unscrupulous, in certain ways, as Machiavel ; 
and, it was fixed in Guy’s mind, had abso- 
lutely no religion whatsoever. What were 
the evidences ? M. Yarbarriere led a respect- 
able life, and showed his solemn face and 
person in church with regularity, and was on 
very courteous relations with the clergy, and 
had built the greater part of a church in 
Pontaubrique, where prayers are, I believe, 
still offered up for him. Ought not all this 
to have satisfied Guy ? And yet he knew 
quite well that solemn M. Yarbarriere did 
not believe one fact, record, tradition, or 
article of the religion he professed, or of any 
other. Had he denounced, ridiculed, or con- 
troverted them ? — Never. On the contrary, 
he kept a civil tongue in his head, or was si- 
lent. What, then, were the proofs, which 
had long quite settled the question in Guy’s 
mind? They consisted of some half-dozen 
smiles and shrugs, scattered over some fifteen 
years, and delivered impressively at signifi- 
cant moments. 

^ But with all this he was kindly. The hap- 
piness of a great number of persons depend- 
ed upon M. Yarbarriere, and they were hap- 
py. His wine-estates were well governed. 
His great silk-factory in the south was wise- 
ly and benevolently administered. He gave 
handsomely to every deserving charity. 
He smiled on children and gave them small 
coins. He loved flowers, and no man was 
more idolized by his dogs. 

Guy was attached by his kindness, and he 
felt that be his moral system exactly what it 
might, he had framed one and acted under 
it, and instinctively imbibed for him that 


respect which we always cherish for the 
man who has submitted his conduct consist- 
ently to a code or principle self-imposed by 
intellect — even erring. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

LADY ALICE TALKS -WITH GUY STRANGWAYS. 

When Guy had bid this man good-night 
and entered his chamber, he threw himself 
into his easy-chair beside the fire, which had 
grown low and grey in the grate. He felt 
both sad and alarmed. He now felt assured 
that M. Yarbarriere was fashioning and get- 
ting together the parts of a machine which 
was to work evil against their host and his 
family? daughter Beatrix. He had no 
other. 

Already implicated in deception, the rea- 
sons for which he knew not, the direction of 
which he only suspected — bound as he was 
to secrecy by promises the most sacred, to 
his stern old kinsman and benefactor, he dared 
not divulge the truth. Somehow the blow 
meditated, he was confident, against this Bar- 
onet, ivas to redound to Ms advantage. What 
a villain should he appear when all was over ! 
Sir J ekyl, his host, too, frank and hospitable 
— how could he have earned the misfortune, 
be it great or small, that threatened ? And 
the image of Beatrix — like an angel — stood 
between her father and the unmasked villain 
Guy, who had entered the house in a borrowed 
shape, ate and drank and slept, talked and 
smiled, and, he now feared, loved^ and in the 
end — struck ! 

When Mr. Guy Strangwaj^s came down 
next morning he looked very pale. His 
breakfast was a sham. He talked hardly at 
all, and smiled but briefly and seldom. 

M. Yarbarriere, on the contrary, was more 
than usually animated, and talked in his pe- 
culiar vein rather more than was his wont ; 
and after breakfast. Sir Jekyl placed his hand 
kindly on Guy Strangways’ arm as he looked 
dismally from the window. The young 
man almost started at the kindly pressure. 

“ Yery glad to hear that Monsieur Yarbar- 
riere has changed his mind,” said Sir Jekjd, 
with a smile. 

What change was this? thought Guy, 
whose thoughts were about other plans of 
his uncle’s, and he looked with a strange sur- 
prise in Sir Jekyl’s face. 

“ I mean his ill-natured idea of going so 
soon. I’m so glad. You know you have 
seen nothing yet, and we are going to kill a 
buck to-day, so you had better postpone the 
moor to-morrow, and if you like to take your 
rod in the afternoon, you will find — Barron 
tells me — some very fine trout, about half a 
mile lower down the stream than you fished 
yesterday — a little below the bridge.” 

Guy thanked him, 1 fancy, rather oddly. 
He heard him in fact as if it was an effort to 
follow his meaning, and he really did feel re- 
lieved when his good-natured host was called 
away, the next moment, to settle a disputed 
question between the two sportsmen, Linnett 
and Dooccy. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


57 


“ How is grandmamma this morning ?” in- 
quired Sir Jekyl of Beatrix, before she left 
the room, 

“ Better, I think. She says she will take 
a little turn up and down the broad walk, by- 
and-by, and I am to go with her.” 

“Very pleasant for you, Trixie,’^ said her 
papa, with one of his chuckles. “ So you 
can't go with your ladies to Lonsted to-day ?” 

“No— it can’t be helped; but I’m glad 
poor granny can take her little walk.” 

“ Not a bit of you, Trixie.” 

“ Yes, indeed, I am. Poor old granny.” 

The incredulous Baronet tapped her cheek 
with his finger, as he chuckled again roguish- 
ly, and with a smile and a shake of his head, 
their little talk ended. 

In the hall he found Guy Strangways in 
his angling garb, about to start on a solitary 
excursion. He preferred it. He was very 
much obliged. He did not so much care for 
the chase, and liked walking even better 
than riding. 

The Baronet, like a well-bred host, allowed 
his guests to choose absolutely their own 
methods of being happy, but he could not 
but perceive something in the young gentle- 
man’s manner that was new and uncomfor- 
table. Had he offended him— had anything 
occurred during the sitting after dinner last 
night ? VVell, he could not make it out, but 
his manner was a little odd and constrained, 
and in that slanting light from above, as he 
had stood before him in the hall, he certain- 
ly did look confoundedly like that other Guy 
whose memory was his chief spoil-sport. 
But it crossed him only like a neuralgic pang, 
to be forgotten a minute after. And so the 
party dispersed — some mounted, to the park ; 
others away with the keeper and dogs for 
the moor ; and Strangways, dejected on his 
solitary river-side ramble. 

His rod and fly-book were but pretexts — 
his object was solitude. It was a beautiful 
autumnal day, a low sun gilding the red and 
3"ellow foliage of wood and hedgerow, and 
the mellow songs of birds were quivering in 
the air. The cheer and the melanchol}^ of 
autumn were there— the sadness of a pleasant 
farewell. 

“ It is well,” thought Strangways, “ that I 
have been so startled into consciousness, 
while I yet have power to escape my fixte— 
that beautiful girl ! I did not know till last 
night how terrible I shall find it to say fare- 
well. But, cost what it may, the word must 
be spoken. She will never know what it 
costs me. I may call it a dream, but even 
dreams of paradise are forgotten ; my dream 
— never ! All after-days dark without her. 
All my future life a sad reverie— a celestial re- 
membrance— a vain yearning. These proud 
English people— and those dark designs, what 
are they ? No, they shan’t hurt her — never. 
I’ll denounce him first. What is it to me 
what becomes of me if I have saved her— in 
so few days grown to be so much to me — my 
idol, my darling, though she may never 
know it ?” 

Guy Strangways, just five-and-twenty, had 
formed, on the situation, many such tremen- 


dous resolutions as young gentlemen at that 
period of life are capable of. He would speak 
to her no more ; he would think of her no 
more; he would brave his uncle’s wrath, 
shield her from all possibility of evil — throw 
up his own stakes, be they what they might— 
and depart in silence, and never see Beatrix 
again. 

The early autumn evening had begun to 
redden the western clouds, as Guy Strang- 
ways, returning, approached the fine old 
house, and passing a thick group of trees and 
underwoods, he suddenly found himself be- 
fore Beatrix and Lady Alice. I dare say 
they had been talking about him, for Beatrix 
blushed, and the old lady stared at him from 
under her grey brows, with lurid half- 
frightened eyes, as she leaned forward, her 
thin fingers grasping the arms of the rustic 
chair, enveloped in her ermine-lined mantle. 

Lady Alice looked on him as an old lady 
might upon a caged monster — with curiosity 
and fear. She was beginning to endure his 
presence, though still with an awe nearly 
akin to horror — though that horror was fast 
disappearing — and there was a strange yearn- 
ing, too, that drew her toward him. 

Pie had seen Beatrix that morning. The 
apparition had now again risen in the midst 
of his wise resolutions, and embarrassed him 
strangely. The old lady’s stare, too, was, 
you may suppose, to a man predisposed to 
be put out, very disconcerting. The result 
was that he bowed very low indeed before 
the ladies, and remained silent, expecting, 
like a ghost, to be spoken to. 

“ Come here, sir, if you please,” said the old 
la4y, with an odd mixture of apprehension 
and command. “ How d’ye do, Mr. Strang- 
ways ? I saw 3^ou yesterda}^, you know, at 
dinner ; and I saw 3^011 some weeks since at 
Wardlock Church. I have been affected b3^ a 
resemblance. Merciful Heaven,’ it is miracu- 
lous ! And things of that sort affect me now 
more than they once might have done. I’m 
a sickly old woman, and have lost most of 
my dearest ties on earth, and cannot expect 
to remain much longer behind them.” 

It was odd, but the repulsion was still 
active, while at the same time she was alrea- 
dy, after a fashion, opening her heart to him. 

It was not easy to frame an answer, on 
the moment, to this strange address. He 
could only say, as again he bowed low — 

“ I do recollect. Lady Alice, having seen 
you in Wardlock Church. My uncle, Mon- 
sieur Vabarriere” 

At this point the handsome young gentle- 
man broke down. His uncle had whispered 
him, as they sat side by side — 

“ Look at that old lady costumed in 
mourning, in the seat in the gallery with the 
marble tablet and two angels — do you see ? — 
on the wall behind. That is Lady Alice Red- 
cliffe. I’ll tell you more about her by-and-by.” 

“ By-and-by,” as Guy Strangwa3^s had come 
to know, indicated in M. Vabarrierr's voca- 
bulary that period which was the luminous 
point in his perspective, at which his unex- 
plained hints and proceedings would all be 
cleared up. The sudden rush of these recol- 


58 


GUY DEVERELL. 


lections and surmises in sucn a presence 
overcame Guy Strangways, and he changed 
color and became silent. 

The old lady, however, understood nothing 
of the cause of his sudden embarrassment, 
and spoke again. 

“ Will you forgive an old woman for speak- 
ing with so little reserve ?— your voice, too, 
sir, so wonderfull}^ resembles it — wonder- 
fully.” 

Old Lady Alice dried her eyes a little here, 
and Guy, who felt that his situation might 
soon become very nearly comical, said very 
gently— 

“ There are, I believe, such likenesses. I 
have seen one or two such myself.” And then 
to Beatrix aside, “ My presence and these re- 
collections, I fear, agitate Lady Alice.” 

But the old lady interposed in a softened 
tone — “ JSTo, sir ; pray don’t go ; pray remain. 
You’ve been walking, fishing. What a sweet 
day, and charming scenery near here. I 
know it all very well. In my poor girl’s life- 
time I was a great deal here. She was very 
accomplished — she drew beautifully — poor 
thing ; my pretty Beatrix here is very like 
her. You can’t remember your poor mamma ? 
No, hardly.” 

All this time Lady Alice was, with aristo- 
cratic ill -breeding, contemplating the fea- 
tures of Guy Strangways, as she might a pic- 
ture, with saddened eyes. She was be- 
coming accustomed to the apparition. It had 
almost ceased to frighten her ; and she liked 
it even, as a help to memory. 

Five minutes later she was walking feebly 
up and down the plateau, in the last level 
beams of the genial sunset, leaning on the 
arm of the young man, who could not refuse 
this courtesy to the garrulous old lady, al- 
though contrary to his prudent resolutions 
— it retained him so near to Beatrix. 

“ And, Mr. Strangways, it is not every day, 
you know, I can w^alk out ; and Trixie here 
will sometimes bring her work into the bou- 
doir — and if you would pay me a visit there, 
and read or talk a little, you can’t think what 
a kindness you w’ould do me.” 

What could he do but hear and smile, and 
declare how happy it would make him ? Al- 
though here, too, he saw danger to his wise 
resolutions. But have not the charities of 
society their claims ? 

These w^ere their parting words as they 
stood on the stone platform, under the carved 
armorial bearings of the Marldwes, at the 
hall-door; and old Lady Alice, wdien she 
reached her room, wept softer and happier 
tears than had wet her cheeks for many a 
year. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

SOME TALK OF A SURVEY T>P THE GREEN 
CHAMBER. 

The red sunset beam that had lighted the 
group we have just been following, glanced 
' through the windows of M. Yarbarriere’s 
dressing-room, and lighted up a letter he 
was at that moment reading. It said — 


“ The woman co wnom you refer is still 
living. We heard fully about her last year, 
and, >ve are informed, is now in the serviee 
of Lady Alice Redcliflfe, of Wardlock, within 
easy reach of Marlowe. We found her, as 
we thought, reliable in her statements, 
though impracticable and reserved ; but that 
is eight years since. She was, I think, some 
way past fifty then.” 

M. Varbarriere looked up here, and placed 
the letter in his pocket, beholding his valet 
entering. 

“ Come in, Jacques,” exclaimed the pon- 
derous old gentleman, in the vernacular of 
the valet. 

He entered gaily bowing and smiling. 

“ Well, my friend,” he exclaimed, good hu- 
moredly, “you look very happy, and no 
wonder— you, a lover of beauty, are fortunate 
in a house wdiere so much is treasured.” 

“ Ah ! Monsieur mocks himself of me. 
But there are many beautiful ladies assembled 
here, my faith !” 

“ What do you think of Lady Jane Len- 
nox?” 

“ Oh, heavens ! it is an angel !” 

“ And only think ! she inhabits, all alone, 
that terrible green chamber !” exclaimed the 
old gentleman, with an unwonted smile, “ I 
have just been wondering about that green 
chamber, regarding which so many tales of 
terror are related, and trying from its out- 
ward aspect to form some conjecture as- to 
its interior, you understand, its construction 
and arrangements. It interests me so strange- 
ly. Now, I dare say, by this time so curious 
a sprite as you — so clever— so potent with 
that fair sex who hold the keys of all that is 
worth visiting, there is hardly a nook in this 
house, from the cellar to the garret, worth 
looking at, into which you have not con- 
trived a peep during this'time ?” 

“ Ah, my faith ! Monsieur does me too 
much honor. I may have been possibly, but 
I do not know to which of the rooms they 
accord that name.” 

Now upon this M. Varbarriere described 
to him the exact situation of the apartment. 

“ And who occupies the room at present, 
Monsieur ?” 

“ Lady Jane Lennox, I told you.” 

“ Oh ! then I’m sure I have not be6n there. 
That would be impossible.” 

“ But there must be no impossibility here,” 
said the old gentleman, with a grim ‘ half joke 
and whole earnest ’ emphasis. “ If you satis- 
fy me during our stay in this house I will 
make you a present of five thousand francs — 
you comprehend ? — this day three weeks. I 
am curious in my way as you are in yours. 
Let us see whether your curiosity cannot sub- 
serve mine. In the first x^lace, on the honor 
of a gentleman — your father was a Captain of 
Chasseurs, and his son will not dishonor him 
— you promise to observe the strictest silence 
and secrecy.” 

Jacques bowed and smiled deferentially ; 
their eyes met for a moment, and Monsieur 
Varbarriere said — 

“ You need not suppose any thing so serious 
— mon ami — there is no tragedy or even 


GUY DEVERELL. 


fourhene intended. I have heard spiritual 
marvels about that apartment; I am inqui- 
sitive. Say I am composing a philosophy 
and writing a book on the subject, and I want 
some few facts about the proportions of it. 
See, here is a sketch— oblong square— that 
is the room. Y ou will visit it — you take some 
pieces of cord— you measure accurately the 
distance from this wall to that— you see ?— 
the length; then from this to this— the 
breadth. If any projection or recess, you 
measure its depth or prominence most exact- 
ly. If there be any door or buffet in the 
room, beside the entrance, you mark where. 
You also measure carefully the thickness of 
the wall at the windows and the door. I am 
very curious, and all this you shall do.” 

The courier shrugged, and smiled, and 
pondered. 

“ Come, there may be difficulties, but such 
as melt before the light of your genius and 
the glow of this,” and he lifted a little column 
of a dozen golden coins between his finger 
and thumb. 

“ Do jmu think that when we, the visitors, 
are all out walking or driving, a chamber- 
maid would hesitate for a couple of these 
counters to facilitate your enterprise, and en- 
able you to do all this ? Bah ! I know them 
too well.” 

“ I am flattered of the confidence of Mon- 
sieur. I am ravi of the opportunity to serve 
him.” 

There was something perhaps cynical in 
the imposing solemnity of gratitude with 
which M. Yarharriere accepted these evi- 
dences of devotion. 

“ You must so manage that she will sup- 
pose nothing of the fact (hat it is I who want 
all these foolish little pieces cf twine,” said 
the grave gentleman ; “ she would tell every- 
body. What will you say to her ?” 

“ Ah, Monsieur, please, it will be Margery. 
She is a charming rogue, and as discreet as 
myself. She will assist, and I will tell her 
nothing but fibs, and we shall make some 
money. She and I together in the servants’ 
hall— she shall talk of the ghosts and the 
green chamber, and I will tell how we used 
to make wagers who would guess, without 
having seen it, the length of such a room in 
the Chateau Mauville, when we were visit- 
ing there — how many windows, how high 
the chimneypiece ; and then the nearest 
guesser won the pool. You see. Monsieur— 
you understand ? — Margery and I, we will 
13lay this little trick. And so she will help 
me to all the measurements before, without 
sharing of my real design, quite simply.” 

“ Sir, I admire your care of the young la- 
dy’s simplicity,” said M. Varbarriere, sardon- 
ically. “ You ’Will procure all this for me as 
quickly as you can, and I shan’t forget my 
promise.” 

Jacques was again radiantly grateful. 

Jacques, you have the character of being 
always true to your chief. I never doubted 
your honor, and I show the esteem I hold 
you in by undertaking to give you five thou- 
sand francs in three weeks’ time, provided 
you satisfy me wdiile here. It would not 


59 

cost me much, Jacques, to make of you as 
good a gentleman as your father.” 

Jacques here threw an awful and inde- 
scribable devotion into his countenance. 

“ I don’t say, mind you, I’ll do it — only 
that if I pleased I very easily might. You 
shall bring me a little plan of that room, 
including all the measurements I have men- 
tioned, if possible to-morrow — the sooner 
the better ; that to begin with. Enough for 
the present. Stay ; have you had any talk 
with Sir Jekyl Marlowe — you must be quite 
frank with me — has he noticed you ?” 

“ He has done me that honor.” 

, “ Eloquently ?” 

“ Once only. Monsieur.” 

“ Come, let us hear what passed.” 

M. Yarharriere had traced a slight em- 
barrassment in Jacques’ countenance. 

So with a little effort and as much gaiety 
as he could command, Jacques related 
tolerably truly what had passed in the stable- 
yard. 

A lurid flush appeared on the old man’s 
forehead for a moment, and he rang out 
fiercely — 

“ And why the devil, sir, did you not men- 
tion that before?” 

“ I was not aw'are. Monsieur, it was of 
any importance,” he answered deferentially. 

“ Jacques, you must tell me the whole 
truth — did he make you a present ?” 

“ Ho, Monsieur.” 

“ He gave you nothing then or since ?” 

“ Pas un soiis^ Monsieur — nothing.” 

“ Has he 'promised you anything V 

“ Nothing, Monsieur.” 

“ But you understand what he means ?” 

“ Monsieur will explain himself.” 

“ You understand he has made yon an 
offer in case you consent to transfer 'your 
service.” 

“ Monsieur commands my allegiance.” 

“ You have only to say so if you wish it.” 

“ Monsieur is my generous chief I will 
not abandon him for a stranger — never, 
while he continues his goodness and his 
preference for me.” 

“ Well, you belong to me for a month, you 
know, by your agreement. After that you 
may consider what you please. In the mean- 
time be true to me ; and not one word, if you 
please, of me or my concerns to anybody.” 

“ Certainly, Monsieur. I shall be found a 
man of honor now as always.” 

“ I have no doubt, Jacques ; as I told you, 

I know you to be a gentleman — I rely upon 
you.” 

M. Yarbarriere looked rather grimly into 
his eye as he uttered this compliment ; and 
when the polite little gentleman had left the 
room, M. Yarbarriere bethought him how 
very little he had to betray — how little he , 
knew about him, his nephew, and his plans ; 
and although he would not have liked his ; 
inquiries to be either baulked or disclosed, i 
he could yet mentallv snap his fingers at ’ 
Monsieur. 


60 


GUY DEVERELL. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

M. VARBAHRIEIIE TALKS A LITTLE MOKE 
FREELY. 

After liis valet left him, M. Varbarriere 
(lid not descend, but remained in his dressing- 
room, thiidiing profoundly ; and, after a 
while, he opened his pocket-book, and began 
to con over a number of figures, and a dia- 
gram to which these numbers seemed to refer. 

Sometimes standing at the window, at 
others pacing the fioor, and all the time en- 
grossed by a calculation, like a man over a 
problem in mathematics. 

For two or three minutes he had^been 
thus engaged when Guy Strangways entered 
the room. 

“ Ho ! j^oung gentleman, why don’t you 
read your prayer-book?” said the old man 
with solemn waggery. 

“ I don’t understand,” said the young gen- 
tleman. 

“ Xo, you don’t. I am the old sphyn^:, you 
, -ee, and some of my riddles I can t make out, 
even myself. My faith ! I have been puzz- 
ling my head till it aches over my note-book ; 
and I saw you walking with that old lady, 
Lady Alice Redcliffe, up and down so affec- 
tionately. There is another riddle ! My 
laith ! the house itself is an enigma. And 
Sir Jekyl — what do you think of him ; is he 
going to marry ?” 

“ To marry !” echoed Guy Strangways. 

• “ Ay, to marry. I do not know, but he 
is so sly. We must not let him marry, you 
know ; it would be so cruel to poor little 
Mademoiselle Beatrix — eh ?” 

Guy Strangways looked at him doubtingly. 

“ He is pretty old, you know, but so am I, 
and older ^ my faith ! But I think he is mak- 
ing eyes at the married ladies — eh ?” 

“ I have not observed — perhaps so,” an- 
swered Guy, carelessly. “ He does walk and 
talk a great deal with that pretty Madame 
Maberly.” 

“ Madame Maberly ? Bah !’’ And M. Var- 
barriere’s “ bah” sounded like one of those 
long sneering slides played sometimes on a 
deep chord of a double bass. “ Xo, no, it 
is that fine woman, Miladi Jane Lennox.” 

“ Lady Jane ! I fancied she did not like 
him. I mean that she positively (^Miked 
him ; and to say truth, I never saw, on his 
part, the slightest disposition to make him- 
self agreeable.” 

I do not judge by words or conduct — 
in presence of others those are easily con- 
trolled ; it is when the eyes meet — 3mu can’t 
mistake. Bah ! I knew the first evening we 
arrived. Xow see, you must have your eyes 
about you, Guy. It is your business, not 
mine. Very important to you, mon petit 
gar eon ; of no sort of imaginable consequence 
to me, except as your friend ; therefore you 
shall watch and report to me. You under- 
stand ?” 

Guy flushed with a glow of shame and 
anger, and looked up with gleaming eyes, 
expecting to meet the deep-set observation 
' of the old man. Had their eyes encountered, 
perhaps a quarrel would have resulted, and 


the fates and furies would have had the con- 
sequences in their hand; but M. Varbar- 
riere was at the moment reading his attor- 
ney’s letter again. Guy looked out of the 
window, and thought resolutely. 

“ One duplicity I have committed. It is 
base enough to walk among these people 
masked ; but to be a spy — n^erT 

And he clenched his hand and pressed his 
foot upon the floor. 

It was dreadful to know that these moral 
impossibilities were expected of him. It 
was terrible to feel that a rupture with his 
best, perhaps his only friend, was drawing 
slowly but surely on ; but he was quite re- 
solved. Xothing on earth could tempt him 
to the degradation of which his kinsman 
seemed to think so lightly. 

Happily, perhaps, for tlio immediate con- 
tinuance of their amicable relations, the 
thoughts of M. Varbarriere had taken a new 
turn, or rather reverted to the channel from 
which they had only for a few minutes di- 
verged. 

“ You were walking with that old woman, 
Lady Alice Redcliffe. She seemed to talk a 
great deal. How did she interest you all 
that time ?” 

“ To say truth, she did not interest me all 
that time. She talked vaguely about fiimily 
afliictions, and the death of her son ; and she 
looked at me at first as if I were a brigand, 
and said I was very like some one whom she 
had lost.” 

“ Themshe’s a friendly sort of old woman, 
at least on certain topics, and garrulous? 
Who’s there ? Oh ! Jacques ; very good, 
you need not stay.” 

The old gentleman was by this time mak- 
ing his toilet. 

“ Did she happen to mention a person 
named Gwynn, a housekeeper in her ser- 
vice ?” 

“ Xo.” 

“ I’m glad she is an afiTable old lady ; we 
shall be sure to hear something useful,” said 
the old gentleman, with an odd smile. “ That 
housekeeper I must see and sift. They tell 
me she’s impracticable ; they found her so. I 
shall see. While you live, Guy, do your own 
business ; no one else will do it, be sure. I 
did mine, and I’ve got on.” 

The old gentleman, who was declaiming 
before the looking-glass in his shirt-sleeves 
and crimson silk suspenders, brushing up 
that pyramid of grizzled hair which added 
to the solemnity of his effect, now got into 
his black silk waistcoat. The dressing-bell 
had rung, and the candles had superseded 
daylight. 

“ You’ll observe all I told you, Gu}^ Sir 
Jekyl shan’t many— he would grow what 
they call impracticable, like Madame Gw^mn ; 
Miss Beatrix, she shan’t marry either — it 
would make, perhaps, new difficulties ; and 
you, I may as well tell you, canH marry her. 
When you know the reasons you will see 
that such an event could not he contemplated 
You understand ?” 

And he dropped his haircomb, with which 
he had been bestowing a last finish on his 


GUY DEVERELL. 


61 


spire of hair, upon his dressing table, with a 
slight emphasis. 

“ Therefore, Guy, you will understand you 
must not be a fool about that young lady ; 
there are many others to speak to ; and if 
you allow yourself to like her, you will be a 
miserable stripling till you forget her.” 

“ There it no need, sir, to warn me ; I have 
resolved to avoid any such feeling. I have 
sense enough to see that there are obstacles 
insurmountable to my ever cherishing that 
ambition, and that I never could be regarded 
as worthy.” 

“ Bravo ! young man, that is what I like ; 
you are as modest as the devil ; and here^ I 
can tell you, modesty, which is so often sil- 
ly, is as wise as the serpent. You under- 
stand?” • 

The large-chested gentleman was now get- 
ting into his capacious coat, having buttoned 
his jewelled wrist-studs in ; so he contem- 
plated himself in the glass, with a touch and 
a pluck here and there. 

“ One word more, about that old woman. 
Talk to her all you please, and let her talk 
— and talk than you, so much the better ; 
but observe, she will question 3^011 about 
3murself and your connections, and one word 
you shall not anwer ; observe she learns noth- 
ing from you, that is, in the spirit of your 
solemn promise to me.” 

M. Varbarriere had addressed this peremp- 
tory reminder over his shoulder, and now re- 
touched his perpendicular cone of hair, 
which waved upwards like a grey flame. 

“ Guy, you will be late,” he called over his 
shoulder. “ Come, my boy ; we must not be 
walking in with the entremets.” 

And he plucked out that huge chased re- 
peater, a Genevan masterpiece, which some- 
how harmonised with his air of wealth and 
massiveness, a'nd told him he had but eight 
minutes left ; and with an injunction to 
haste, which Guy, with a start, obeyed, this 
sable and somewhat mountainous figure 
swayed solemnly from the room. 

“ Who is that Monsieur Varbarriere ?” in- 
quired Lady Alice of her host, as the com- 
pany began to assemble in the drawing- 
room, before that gentlemen had made his 
appearance. 

“ I have not a notion.” 

“ Are you serious ? No, you’re not se- 
rious,” observed Lady Alice. 

“I’m always serious when I talk to you.”' 

“ Thank you. I’m sure that is meant for a 
compliment,” said the old lady, curtly. 

“ And I assure you I mean what I say,” 
continued Sir Jekyl, not minding the paren- 
thesis. “ I really don’t know, except that he 
comes from France— rather a large place, 
you ^now— where he comes from. I have 
not a notion what his business, calling, or 
trade may be.” 

“ Trade replied Lady Alice, with dry 
dignity. 

“ Trade, to be sure. TouWe a tradesman 
3’ourself, 3^11 know — a miner — /bought twen- 
ty-two shares in that for you in June last ; 
you’re an iron ship-builder — you have fif- 
teen in that; you’ re. a ’bus-man— 3"ou have 


ten there ; and you were devilish near being 
a brewer, only it stopped.” 

“ Don’t talk like a fool — a joint-stock com- 
pany I hope is one thing, and a — a — the 
other sort of thing quite another, I fancy.” 

“ You fancy, yes ; but it is not. It’s a 
firm— Smith, Brown, Jones, RedclitFe, and 
Co., omnibus drivers, brewers, and so forth. 
So if he’s not a lival, and doesn’t interfere 
with your little trade, I really don’t care, my 
dear little mamma, what sort of shop my 
friend Varbarriere may keep ; but as I said, 
I don’t know ; maybe he’s too fine a fellow 
to meddle, like us, with vats and ’busses.” 

“ It appears odd that you should know ab- 
solutely nothing about your own guests,”, re- 
marked Lady Alice. 

“ Well, it would be odd, only I do,” an- 
swered Sir Jekyl — “ all one needs to know or 
ask. He presented his papers, and comes 
duly accredited — a letter from old Philander 
the Peer. Do 3^011 remember Peery still ? I 
don’t mind him; he was always a noodle, 
though in a question of respectability he’s 
not quite nothing; and another from Bob 
Charteris — ^you don’t know him — Attachd at 
Paris ; a better or more reliable quarter one 
could not hear from. I’ll let you read them 
to-morrow ; they speak unequivocally for 
his respectability ; and I think the inference 
is even that he has soul above ’busses. Here 
he is.” 

M. Varbarriere advanced with the air of a 
magician about to conduct a client to his 
magic mirror, toward Lady Alice, before 
whom he made a low bow, having been pre- 
sented the day before, and he inquired with 
a grave concern how she now felt herself, 
and expressed with a sonorous suavity his re- 
grets and his hopes. 

Lady Alice, having had a good account of 
him, received him on the whole very gra- 
ciously; and being herself a good French 
woman, the conversation flowed on agree- 
ably. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SOME PRIVATE TALK OF VARBARRIERE AND 
LADY ALICE AT THE DINNER-TABLE. 

At dinner he was placed beside the old 
lady. He understood good cookery, and 
with him to dine was to analyse and contem- 
plate. He was usually taciturn and absorbed 
during the process ; but on this occasion he 
made an effort, and talked a good deal in a 
grave, but, as the old lady thought, an agree- 
able and kindly vein. 

Oddly enough, he led the conversation to 
his nephew, and found his companion very 
ready indeed to listen, as perhaps he had an 
ticipated, and even to question him on thi 
theme with close but unavowed interest. 

“ He bears two names which, united, re 
mind me of some of my bitterest sorrows— 
Guy was my dear son’s Christian name, and 
Mr. Strang ways was his most particular 
friend ; and there is a likeness too,” she con- 
tinued, looking with her dim and clouded 
eyes upon Guy at the other side, whom fate 


63 


GUY DEVERELL. 


had placed beside Miss Blanket — “ a like- 
ness so wonderful as to make me, at times, 
quite indescribably nervous ; at times it is — 
how handsome ! don’t you consider him 
wonderfully handsome ?” 

She glanced suddenly as she spoke, and 
saw an expression on the countenance of M. 
Varbarriere who looked for no such inspec- 
tion, at that moment, which she neither 
liked nor understood. 

He said, to cover his indiscretion, “ I was at 
tlie moment, reminded of a strange mistake 
which once took place in consequence of a 
likeness. I was thinking of relating it, but, 
on recollection, it is too vulgar.” 

M. Varbarriere did not hasten to change his 
countenance, and presently he added — “ You 
think, perhaps, that my nephew was formerly 
a companion of Mr. Redcliffe, your son ?” 

“ Oh, no. He was about Jekyl’s age. I dare 
say I had lost him before that young man 
was born.” 

“ Oh ! that surprises me very much. 
Monsieur Redcliffe— your son — is it possible 
he should have been so much older ?” 

“ My son’s name was Deverell,” said the 
old lady, sadly. 

“Ah.! that’s very odd. He, Guy, then, 
had an uncle who had a friend of that name 
— Guy Deverell — long ago in this country*. 
That is very interesting. 

“ Is not it?” repeated Lady Alice, with a 
gasp. “I feel somehow, it must be he — a 
tall, slight young man.” 

“ Alas ! madam, he is much changed if it 
be he. He must have been older than your 
son, near sixty now, and rather stout. I’ve 
heard him talk of his friend Guy Deverell.” 

“ And with affection, doubtless.” 

“ Well, yes, affection, certainly, and with 
indignation at the mode of his death.” 

“Yes, Monsieur Varbarriere ; but you 
know, even though we cannot always forget, 
we must forgive.” 

“ Yes, Lady Alice, divine philosophy, but 
not easy to practice. I fear it is as hard to 
do one as the other.” 

“ And how is Mr. Strangways ?” inquired 
Lady Alice. 

“ Growing old. Lady Alice ; he has not 
spared himself ; otherwise well.” 

“ And this, you say, is his nephew ?” con- 
tinued the old lady. “ And you ?” 

“ I am Guy’s uncle — his mother'* s brother.” 

“And his mother, is she living ?” 

“ No, poor thing 1 gone long ago.” 

“ Monsieur Varbarriere,” said old ^ Lady 
Alice, a little sternly in his ear, “ you will par- 
don me, but it seems to me that you are tri- 
fling, and not quite sincere in all you tell me.” 

“ t am shocked, madam. How have I 
showed, I entreat, any evidences of a dispo- 
sition so contrary to my feelings V” 

“ I tell you frankly — in your countenance, 
and I observed it before. Monsieur.” 

“Believe me, I entreat, madam, when I 
assure you, upon the honor of a gentleman, 
every word I have said is altogether true. 
Nor would it be easy for me to describe how 
profound is my sympathy with you.” 

From this time forth Lady Alice saw no ] 


return of that faint but odious look of banter 
that had at first shocked and then irritated 
her ; and fortified by the solemn assurance 
he had given, she fell into a habit of refer- 
ring it to some association unconnected with 
herself, and tried to make up for her attack 
upon him by an increased measure of courtesy. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE LADIES AND GENTLEMEN RESUME CON’ 
VERSATION IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

“ Dives, my boy,” said the Baronet, taking 
his stand beside his brother on the hearth- 
rug, “ the Bishop’s coming to-morrow.” 

“ Ho 1” exclaimed Dives, bringing his right 
shoulder forward, so as nearly to confront 
his brother. 

“ Here’s his note. He’ll be here to dinner, 
I suppose, by the six o’clock train.” 

“ Thanks,” said Dives, taking the note and 
devouring it energetically. 

“ Just half a dozen lines of three words 
each — always so you know. Poor old Sam- 
my ! I always liked him — a go od old cock at 
school — great fun, but always a gentleman.” 

“ Sorry to see his hand begins to shake a 
little,” said Dives, returning the manuscript. 

Time for it, egad ! He’s pretty well on. 
We’ll all be shaky a bit before long, Dives.” 

“ How long does he stay ?” 

“ I think only a day or two. I have his 
first note up stairs, if I did not burn it.” 

“ I’m glad I’m to meet him — rery glad in- 
deed. I think it’s five years since I met his 
lordship. I always found him kind — very.” 

“ You’d better get up your parochial expe- 
riences a little, and 3^our theology eh ? You 
used to be good at theology — usen’tyou?”* 

Dives smiled. “ Pretty well, Jekjd.’^ 

“ And what do you want of him’ Dives ?” 

“ Oh 1 he could be useful to me in fifty 
ways. You know there’s that archdeaconry 
of Priors.” Dives replied riearly in a whisper. 

“ By Jove 1 yes— a capital thing— I forgot 
it;” and Sir Jekyl laughed heartily. 

“ Why do you laugh ?” he asked. 

“ I — I really don’t know,” said the Baronet. 

“ I don’t see any thing absurd or unreason- 
able in it. That archdeaconry has always 
been held by some one connected with the 
county families, and no one that has not 
something more than the archdeaconry it- 
self can afford it.” 

The conversation was here arrested by 
Lady Alice inquiring — “ Pray can you tell 
me what day General Lennox returns ?” 

“ IP said Sir Jekyl. “ I don’t know, I 
protest— maybe to-night — maybe to-morrow. 
Come when he may, he’s very welcome.” 

“ You have not heard ?” she persisted. 

“No, I have not,” he answered, rather 
tartly, with a smile. 

Lady Alice nodded, and raised her voice — 

“ Lady Jane Le nnox, you’ve heard, no 
doubt, pray when does the General return ?” 

“ He has been detained unexpectedly,” 
drawled Lady Jane. 

“ You hear from him constantly ?” pursued 
the old lady. 

“ Every day.” 


GUY DEVERELL. 


63 


“ It’s odd he does not say when you may 
look for him,” said Lady Alice. 

“ E^ad, you want to make her jealous, I 
think, interposed Sir Jekyl. 

“Jealous? Welly I think a young wife 
may very reasonably be jealous, though not 
exactly in the vulgar sense, when she is left 
without a clue to her husband’s movements.” 

“ You said you were going to write to him. 
I wish you would. Lady Alice,” said the 
young lady with an air of some contempt. 

“ I can’t believe he has not said how soon 
his return may be looked for,” observed the 
old lady. 

“ I suppose he’ll say whenever he can, and 
in the meantime I don’t intend plaguing him 
with inquiries he can’t answer.” And with 
these words she leaned back fatigued, and 
with a fierce glance at Sir Jekyl, who was 
close by, she added, so loud that I wonder 
Lady Alice did not hear her — “ Why don’t 
you stop that odious old woman ?” 

“ Stop an odious old woman ! — why, who 
ever did ? Upon my honor, I know no way 
but to kill her,” chuckled the Baronet. 

Lady Jane deigned no reply. 

“ Come here. Dives, and sit by me,” croaked 
the old lady, iDeckoning him with her thin, 
long finger. “ I’ve hardly seen you since I 
came.” 

“ Very happy, indeed— very much obliged 
to you. Lady Alice, for wishing it.” 

And the natty but somewhat forbidding 
looking Churchman sat himself down in 
a prie-dieu chair vis-a-vis to the old woman, 
and folded his hands, expecting her exor- 
dium. 

“ Do you remember. Sir Harry, your fath- 
er ?” 

“ Oh, dear, yes. I recollect my poor fath- 
er very well. We were at Oxford then or 
lust going. How old was I ?— pretty well out 
of my teens.” 

It must be observed that they sat in a con- 
fidential proximity — nobody listened — no- 
body cared to approach. 

“ You remember when he died, poor man ?” 

“Yes — poor father! — we were at home — 
Jekyl and I — for the holidays — I believe it 
was—^ month or so. The Bishop, you knqw, 
was with him.” 

“ I know. He’s coming to-morrow.” 

“ Yes ; so my brother here just told me — 
an excellent, exemplary, pious prelate, and a 
true friend to my poor father. He posted 
fifty miles— from Doncaster— in four hours 
and a half, to be with him. And a great com- 
fort he was. I shall never forget it to him.” 

“ I don’t think you cared for your father, 
Dives ; and Jekyl positively disliked him,” 
interposed Lady Alice agreeably. 

“ I trust there was no feeling so unchris- 
tain and monstrous ever harbored in my 
brother’s breast,” replied Dives, loftily, and 
^with a little flush in his cheeks. 

“ You can’t believe any such thing, my 
dear Dives ; and you know you did not care 
if he was at the bottom of the Red SeUj and 
I don’t wonder,” 

“Pray don’t. Lady Alice. If you think 
such things, I should prefer not hearing 


■them,’' murmured Dives, with clerical dig- 
nity. 

“ And what I want to ask you now is 
this,” continued Lady Alice ; “ you are of 
course aware that he told the Bishop that he 
wanted that green chamber, for some reason 
or another, pulled down ?” 

Dives coughed, and said — 

“ Well, yes, I have heard.” 

“ What was his reason, have you any no- 
tion ?” 

“ He expressed none. My father gave, I 
believe, no reason. I never heard any,” re- 
plied the Reverend Dives Marlowe. 

“ You may be very sure he had a reason,” 
continued Lady Alice. 

' “ Yes, very likely.” 

“ And why is it not done ?” persisted 
Lady Alice. 

“ I can no more say why, than you .can,” 
replied Dives. 

“ But why don’t you see to it ?” demanded 
she. 

“ See to it ! Why, my dear Lady Alice, 
you must know I have no more power in the 
matter than Doocey there, or the man in the 
moon. The house belongs to Jekyl. ^S'up- 
pose you speak to him.” 

“You’ve a tongue in your head. Dives, 
when you’ve an object of your own.” 

Dives flushed again, and looked, for an 
apostle, rather forbidding. 

“ I have not the faintest notion. Lady Alice, 
to what you allude.” 

“ Whatever else he may have been, he was 
your father,” continued Lady Alice, not di- 
verted by this collateral issue, “and as his son 
it was' and is your business to give Jekyl no 
rest till he complies with that dying injunc- 
tion.” 

“ Jekyl’s his own master ; what can I do ?” 

“ Do as you do where your profit’s con- 
cerned ; tease him as you would for a good 
living, if he had it to give.” 

“I don’t press iny interests much upon 
Jekyl. I’ve never teased him or anybody 
else, for anything,” answered Dives, grondl}^ 

“ Come, come. Dives Marlowe ; you have 
duties on earth, and something to think of 
besides yourself.” 

“ I trust I don’t need to be reminded of 
that. Lady Alice,” said the cleric, with a bow 
and a repulsive meekness. 

“ Well, speak to your brother.” 

“ I have alluded to the subject, and an op- 
portunity may occur again.” 

“ Mal^ one — make an opportunity. Dives.” 

“ There are rules. Lady Alice, which we 
must all observe.” 

“ Come, come. Dives Marlowe,” said the 
lady, very tartly, “ remember you’re a clergy- 
man.” 

“ I hope I madam ; and I trust you will 
too.” 

And the Rector rose, and with an offended 
bow, and before she could reply, made a sec- 
ond as stiff, and turned away to the table, 
where he took up 4 volume and pretended to 
read the title. 

“Dives,” said the lady, making no ac- 
count of his huff, “ please to tell Monsieur 


64 


GUY DEYERELL. 


Yarbarriere that I should be very much 
obliged if he would alford me a few minutes 
here, if he is not better engaged ; that is, it 
seems to me he has nothing to do there.” 

M. Yarbarriere was leaning back in his 
chair, his hands folded, and the points of his 
thumbs together; his eyes closed, and his 
bronzed and heavy features composed as it 
seemed, to deep thought; and one of his 
large shining shoes beating time slowly to 
the cadences of his ruminations. 

The Reverend Dives Marlowe was in no 
mood just at that moment to be trotted 
about on that offensive old lady’s messages. 
But it is not permitted to gentlemen, even of 
his sacred calling, to refuse, in this wise, to 
make themselves the obedient humble ser- 
vants of the fair sex, and to tell them to go 
on their own errands. 

Silently he made her a slight bow, secretly 
resolving to avail himself sparingly of his op- 
portunities of cultivating her society for the 
future. 

Perhaps it was owing to some mesmeric 
reciprocity ; but exactly at this moment M. 
Yarbarriere opened his eyes, arose, and 
walked towards the fireplace, as if his object 
had been to contemplate the ornaments over 
the chimneypiece ; and arriving at the hearth- 
rug, and beholding Lady Alice, he courteous- 
ly drew near, and accosted her with a defer- 
ential gallantry, saving the Reverend Dives 
Marlowe, who was skirting the other side of 
the round table, the remainder of his tour. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

VABBAJIRIEIIE PICKS UP SOMETHING ABOUT 
DONICA GWYNN. 

Drawing-boom conversation seldom opens 
like an epic in the thick of the plot, and the 
introductory portions, however graceful, are 
seldom worth much. M. Yarbarriere and 
Lady Alice had been talking some two or 
three minutes, when she made this inquiry. 

“ When did you last see the elder Mr. 
Strang ways, whom you mentioned at din- 
ner ?” 

“ Lately, very lately — within this year.” 

“ Did he seem pretty well ?” 

“ Perfectly well.” 

“ What does he think about it all ?” 

“ I find a difficulty. If Lady Alice Red- 
cliffe will define her question” 

“ I mean— well, I should have asked you 
first, whether he ever talked to you about the 
affairs of that family — the Deverell family — 
I mean as they were affected by the loss of 
a deed. I don’t understand these things 
well ; but it involved the loss, they say, of 
an estate ; and then there was the great 
misfortune of my life.” 

M. Yarbarriere here made a low and rever- 
ential bow of sympathy ; he knew she meant 
the death of her son. 

“ Upon this latter melancholy subject he 
entirely sympathises with you. His grief of 
course has long abated, but his indignation 
survives.” 


“ And well it may, sir. And what does he 
say of the paper that disappeared V” 

“ He thinks, madam, that it was stolen.” 

“Ha! Sodol.” 

The confidential and secret nature of their 
talk had drawn their heads together, and low- 
ered their voices. 

“ He thinks it was abstracted by one of the 
Marlowe family.” 

“ Which of them? Go on, sir.” 

“ Well, by old Sir Harry Marlowe, the 
father of Sir Jekyl.” 

“ It certainly was he ; it could have been 
no other ; it was stolen, that is, I don’t sup- 
pose by his hand ; I don’t know, perhaps it 
was ; he was capable of a great deal ; I say 
nothing. Monsieur Yarbarriere.” 

Perhaps that gentleman thought she had 
said a good deal ; but he was as grave on this 
matter as she. 

“ You seem, madam, very positive. May I 
be permitted to inquire whether you think 
there exists proof of the fact ?” 

“ I don’t speak from proof, sir.” 

Lady xllice sat straighter, and looked full 
in his face for a moment, and said — 

“ I am talking to you. Monsieur Yarbar- 
riere, in a very confidential way. I have not 
for ever so many years met a human being 
who cared, or indeed knew anything of my 
poor boy as his friend. I have at length met 
you, and I open my mind, my conjectures, 
my suspicions ; but, you will understand, in 
the strictest confidence.” 

“ I have so understood all you have said, 
and in the same spirit I have spoken and 
mean to speak, madam, if you permit me, to 
you. I do feel an interest in that Deverell 
family, of wffiom I have heard so much. 
There was a servant, a rather superior order 
of person, wiio lived as housekeeper— a Mrs. 
Grrynn — to whom I w^ould gladly have 
spoken, had chance throwm her in my way, 
and from wffiom it was hoped something im- 
portant might be elicited.” 

“ She is my housekeeper now,” said Lady 
Alice. 

“ Oh I and” 

“ I think she’s a sensible person ; a respec- 
table person, I believe, in her rank of life, 
although they choose to talk scandal about 
her ; as what young woman who lived in the 
same house with that vile old man. Sir Harry 
Marlowe, could escape scandal ? But, poor 
thing ! there was no evidence that ever I 
could learn ; nothing but lies and envy : and 
she has been a faithful servant to the family.” 

“ And is now in your employment, 
madam ?” 

“ My housekeeper at Wardlock,” responded 
Lady Alice. 

“ Residing there now?” inquired M. Yar- 
barriere. 

Lady Alice nodded assent. 

I know not by what subtile evidences, hard 
to define, seldom if ever remembered, we 
sometimes come to a knowdedge, by w hat 
seems an intuition, of other people’s inten- 
tions. M. Yarbarriere was as silent as Lady 
Alice w^as ; his heavy bronzed features v;ere 
still, and he looking down on one of those 


GUY DEYERELL. 


65 


exquisite wreaths of flowers that made the 
pattern of the carpet ; his brown, fattish 
hands were folded in his lap.' He was an 
image of an indolent reverie. 

Perhaps there was something special and 
sinister in the composure of those large fea- 
tures. Lady Alice’s eyes rested on his face, 
and instantly a fear smote her. She would 
have liked to shake him by the arm, and cry, 
“ In God’s name, do you mean us any harm ?” 
But it is not permitted even to old ladies such 
as she to explode in adjuration, and shake up 
old gentlemen whose countenances may hap- 
pen to strike them unpleasantly. 

As people like to dispel an omen, old Lady 
Alice wished to disturb the unpleasant pose 
and shadows of those features. So she spoke 
to him, and he looked up like his accustomed 
self. 

“ You mentioned Mr. Herbert Strangways 
just now. Monsieur. I forgot what relation 
you said he is to the young gentleman who 
accompanies you, Mr. Guy Strangwa^^s.” 

“ Uncle, madam.” 

“ And, pray, does he perceive— did he ever 
mention a most astonishing likeness in that 
young person to my poor son ?” 

“ He has observed a likeness, madam, but- 
never seemed to think it by any means so 
striking as you describe it. Your being so 
much moved by it has surprised me.” 

Here Lady Alice’s old eyes wandered 
toward the .spot where Guy Strangways stood, 
resting tliem but a moment ; every time she 
looked so at him, this melancholy likeness 
struck her with a new force. She sighed and 
shuddered, and removed her eyes. On look- 
ing again at M. Yarbarriere, she saw the same 
slighfly truculent shadow over his features, 
as again he looked drowsily upon the carpet. 

She had spent nearly a quarter of a cen- 
tury in impressing her limited audience with 
the idea that if there were thunderbolts in 
heaven they ought to fall upon Sir Jekyl 
Marlowe. Yet, now that she saw in that 
face something like an evil dream, a promise 
of judgment coming, a feeling of compunc- 
tion and fear agitated her. 

She looked over his stooping shoulders 
and saw pretty Beatrix leaning on the back 
of her father’s chair, the young lady plead- 
ing gaily for some concession. Sir Jekyl 
laughing her off. 

“ How pretty she looks to-night — poor 
Trixie !” said Lady Alice, unconsciously. 

M. Yarbarriere raised his head, and looked, 
directed by her gaze, toward father and 
daughter. But his countenance did not 
brighten. On the contrary, it grew rather 
darker, and he looked another way, as if the 
sight offended him. 

“ Pretty creature she is — pretty Beatrix !” 
exclaimed the old lady, looking sadly and 
fondly across at her. 

No response was vouchsafed by M. Yar- 
barriere. 

“ Don’t you think so ? Don’t you think 
my granddaughter very lovely ?” 

Thus directly appealed to, M. Yabarriere 
conceded the point, but not with effusion. 

“ Yes, Mademoiselle is charming — she is 

5 


very charming— but I am not a critic. I 
have come to that time of life. Lady Alice, 
at which our admiration of mere youth, with 
its smooth soft skin and fresh tints, super- 
cedes our appreciation of beauty.” 

In making this unsatisfactory compliment, 
he threw but one careless glance at Beatrix. 

“ That girl you know, is heiress of all this; 
nothing but the title goes to Dives, and the 
small estate of Grimalston,” said Lady Alice. 
“ Of course I love my grandchild, but it al- 
ways seems to me wrong to strip a title of 
its support, and send down the estates by a 
different line.” 

“ Miss Beatrix Marlowe has a great deal 
too much for her own happiness. It is a dis- 
proportioned fortune, and in a young lady so 
sensible will awake suspicion of all her 
suitors. ‘ You are at my feet sir,’ she will 
think, ‘ but is your worship Inspired by love 
or by avarice?’ She is in the situation of 
that prince who turned all he touched into 
gold ; while it feeds the love of money, it 
starves nature.” 

“ I don’t think it has troubled her head 
much as yet. If she had no dot whatevei , 
she could not be less conscious ” said the old 
lady. 

“ Some people might go through life and 
never feel it ; and even of those who do, I 
doubt if there is oite who would voluntarily 
surrender the consequence or the power of 
exorbitant wealth for the speculative blessing 
of friends and lovers more sincere. I could 
quite fancy, notwithstanding, a lady, either 
wise or sensitive, choosing a life of celibacy 
in preference to marriage under conditions so 
suspicious. Miss Marlowe would be a 
happier woman with only four or five hun- 
dred pounds a-year.” 

“ Well maybe so,” said the old lady, dubi- 
ously, for she knew something of the world 
as well as of the affections. 

“ She will not, most likely, give it away ; 
but if it were taken, she would be happier. 
Few people have nerve for an operation , and 
yet many are the more comfortable when it 
is performed.” 

“ Beatrix has only been out one season, 
and that but interruptedly. She has been 
very much admired, though, and I have no 
doubt will be very suitably married.” 

“ There are disadvantages, however.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Lad}’ Alice, a 
little stiffly. 

“ I mean the tragedy in which Sir Jekyl 
is implicated,” said M. Yarbarriere, rising, 
and looking, without intending it, so sternly 
at Lady Alice, that she winced under it. 

“ Yes, to be sure, but you know the world 
does not mind that — the world does not 
choose to believe ill of fortune’s minions — 
at least to remember it. A few old-fashioned 
people view it as you and I do ; but Jekyl 
stands very well. It- is a wicked world, 
Monsieur Yarbarriere.” 

“ It is not for me to say. Every man has 
profited, more or less, at one time or another, 
by its leniency. Perhaps I feel in this par- 
ticular case more strongly than others ; but, 
notwithstanding* the superior rank, wealth, 


66 


GUY DEVERELL. 


and family of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, I should 
not, were I his equal, like to be tied to him 
by a close family connection.” 

Lady Alice did not feel anger, nor was she 
pleased. She did not look down abashed at 
discovering that this stranger seemed to re- 
sent on so much higher ground than she 
the death of her son. She compressed her 
thin lips, looking a little beside the stern 
gentleman in black, at a distant point on the 
wall, and appeared to reflect. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

LADY JANE PUTS ON HER BRILLIANTS. 

That evening, by the late post, had arrived 
a letter, in old General Lennox’s hand, to his 
wife. It had come at dinner-time, and it 
was with a feeling of ennui she read the ad- 
dress. It was one of those billets which, in 
Swift’s phrase, would “ have kept cool but, 
subsiding on the ottoman, she opened it — 
conjugal relations demanded this attention; 
and Lady Jane, thinking “what a hand he 
writes !’’ ran her eye lazily down those crab- 
bed pages in search of a date to light her to 
the passage where he announced his return ; 
but there was none, so far as she saw. 

^ “ What’s all this about ? ‘ Masterson, the 

silkmercer at Marlowe — a very’ — something 
— ‘fellow — honesV Yes, that’s the word. 
So he may be, but I shan’t buy his horrid' 
trash, if that’s what you mean,” said she, 
crumpling up the stupid old letter, and lean- 
ing back, not in the sweetest temper, and 
with a sidelong glance of lazy defiance 
through her half-closed lashes at the uncon- 
scious Lady Alice. • 

And now arrived a sleek-voiced servant, 
who, bowing beside Lady Jane, informed her 
gently that Mr. Masterson had arrived with 
the parcel for her ladyship. 

“ The parcel ! what parcel .^” 

“ I’m not aware, my lady.” 

“ Tell him to give it to my maid. Ridi- 
culous rubbish !” murmured Lady Jane, 
serenely. 

But the man returned. 

“ Mr. Masterson’s direction from the Gene- 
ral, please, my lady, was to give the parcel 
into your own hands.” 

“ Where is he ?” inquired Lady Jane, rising 
with a lofty fierceness. 

“ In the small breakfast -parlor, my lady.” 

“ Show me the way, please.” 

When Lady Jane Lennox arrived she found 
Mr. Masterson cloaked and muffled as though 
oflfa journey, and he explained, that having 
met General Lennox yesterday accidentally in 
Oxford street, in London, from whence he had 
only just returned, he had asked him to take 
charge of a parcel, to be delivered into her 
ladyship’s own hands, where accordingly, he 
now placed it. 

Lady Jane did not thank him ; she was 
rather conscious of herself conferring a fa- 
vor by accepting anything at his hands; 
and when he was gone she called her .maid, 
and having reached her room and lighted 


her candles, she found a very beautiful set of 
diamonds. 

“ Why, these are really superb, beautiful 
brilliants !” exclaimed the handsome young 
lady. The cloud had quite passed away, and 
a beautiful light glowed on her features. 

Forthwith to the glass she went, in a 
charming excitement. 

“ Light all the candles you can find !” she 
exclaimed. 

“ Well, my eyes, but them is beautiful, my 
lady !” ejaculated the maid, staring with a 
smirk, and feeling that at such a moment, 
she might talk a little, without risk, which, 
indeed, was true. 

So with bed-room and dresvsing-table can- 
dles, and a pair purloined even from old 
Lady Alice’s room, a tolerably satisfactory 
illumination was got up, and the jew^els did 
certainly look dazzling. 

The pendants flashed in her ears — the 
exquisite collar round her beautiful throat — 
the tiara streamed livid fire over her low 
Venus-like forehead, and her eager eyes and 
parted lips expressed her almost childlike 
delight. 

There are silver bullets against charmed 
lives. There are women from whose snowy 
breasts the fire-tipped shafts of Cupid fall 
quenched and broken ; and yet a liandfull of 
these brilliant pellets will find their way 
through that wintry wdiiteness, and lie lodged 
in her bleeding heart. 

After I know not how long a time spent 
before the glass, it suddenly struck Lady 
Jane to inquire of the crumpled letter, in 
which the name of Masterson figured, and 
of whose contents she knew, in fact, nothing, 
but that they named no day for the General’s 
return. She had grown curious as to who 
the donor might be. Were those jewels a 
gift from the General’s rich old sister, who 
had a splendid suit she had heard, which she 
would never put on again ? Had they come 
as a bequest ? How was it, and whose were 
they ? 

And now with these flashing gems still 
dangling so prettily in her ears, and spanning 
her white throat, as she still stood before the 
glass, she applied herself to spell out her 
General’s meaning in better temper 4han for 
a long time, she had read one of that gallant 
foozle’s kindly and honest rigmaroles. At, 
first the process was often interrupted by 
those glances at the mirror which it is im- 
possible under ordinary circumstances to 
withhold ; but as her interest deepened she 
drew the candle nearer, and read very dili- 
gently the stiffly written lines before her. 

They showed her that the magnificent 
present was from himself alone. I should 
be afraid to guess how many thousand pounds 
had been lavished upon those jewels. An 
uxorious fogey — a wdcked old fool — perhaps 
we, outside the domestic circle, may pro- 
nounce him. Lady Jane within that magic 
ring saw differently. 

The brief, blunt, soldier-like affection that 
accompanied this magnificent present, and 
the mention of a little settlement of the jew- 
els, which made them absolutely hers in case 


GUY DEVERELL. 


67 


her “ old man” should die, and the little con- 
jecture “ I wonder whether you would some- 
times miss him ?” smote her heart strangely. 

“ What a gentleman — what an old dar- 
ling !” — and she — how heinously had she re- 
quited his manly but foolish adoration ! 

“ ril write to him this moment,” she said, 
quite pale. 

And she took the casket in her hands and 
laid it on her bed, and sat down on the side 
of it, and trembled very much, and suddenly 
burst into tears, insomuch that her maid was 
startled, and yielding^ forthwith to her sym- 
pathy, largely leavened with curiosity, she 
came and stood by her and administered 
such consolation as people will who know 
nothing of your particular grief, and like, 
perhaps, to discover its causes. 

But after a while her mistress asked her 
impatiently what she meant, and, to her in- 
dignation and surprise, ordered her out of 
the room. 

“ I wish he had not been so good to me. 
I wish he had ever been unkind to me. I 
wish he would beat me. Good Heaven ! is 
it all a dream ?” 

So, quite alone, with one flashing pendant 
in her ear, with the necklace still on — inco- 
herently, wildly, and affrighted — raved Lady 
Jane, with a face hectic and wet with tears. 

Things appeared to her all on a sudden, 
quite in a new character, as persons sud- 
denly called on to leave, life, see their own 
doings as they never beheld them before ; so 
with a shock, and an awakening, tumbled 
about her the whole structure of her illu- 
sions, and a dreadful void with a black per- 
spective for the first time opened round her. 

She did not return to the drawing-room. 
When Beatrix, fearing she might be ill, 
knocked at the door of the green chamber, 
and heard from the far extremity Lady Jane’s 
clear voice call “ Come in,” she entered. 
She found her lying in her clothes, with the 
counterpane thrown partially over her, upon 
the funereal-looking old bed, whose dark 
green curtains depended nearly from the 
ceiling. 

“ Well ?” exclaimed Lady Jane, almost 
fiercely, rising to her elbow, and staring at 
Beatrix. 

“ I — you told me to come in. I’m afraid 
I mistook.” 

“ Did I ? I dare say. I thought it was my 
maid. I’ve got such a bad headache.” 

“ I’m very sorry. Can I do anything ?” 

“ No, Beatrix — no, thank you ; it will go 
away of itself.” 

“ I wish so much. Lady Jane, you would 
allow me to do anything for you. I — I 
sometimes fear I have offended you. You 
seemed to like me, I thought, when I saw 
you this spring in London, and I’ve been tr}^- 
ing to think how I have displeased you.” 

^'Displeased me ! you displease me / Oh ! 
Beatrix, Beatrix, dear, you don’t know, you 
can never know. I — it is a feeling of dis- 
gust and despair. I hate myself, and I’m 
frightened and miserable, and I wish I dare 
cling to you.” 

She looked for a moment as if she would 


fhave liked to embrace her, but she turned 
away and buried her face in her pillow. 

“ Dear Lady Jane, you must not be so 
agitated. You certainly are not well,” said 
Beatrix, close to the bedside, and really a 
good deal frightened. “ Have you heard — I 
hope you have not— any ill news ? ” 

If Lady Jane had been dead she could not 
have seemed to hear her less. 

“ I hope General Lennox is not ill ? ” in- 
quired she timidly. 

“ 111 ? No— I don’t know ; he’s very well. 
I hope he’s very well. I hope he is ; and — 
and I know what I wish for myself. ” 

Beatrix knew what her grandmamma 
thought of Lady Jane’s violence and tem- 
per, and she began to think that something 
must have happened to ruffle it that evening. 

“ I wish you’d go, dear, you can do nothing 
for me,” said Lady Jane, ungraciously, with 
a sudden and sombre change of manner. 

'“Well, dear Lady Jane, if you think of 
anything I can do for you, pray send for 
me; by-and-by you might like me to come 
and read to you ; and would you like me to 
send your maid ? ” 

“ Oh ! no — no, no, no — nothing — good- 
night,” repeated Lady Jane impatiently. 

So Beatrix departed, and Lady Jane re- 
mained alone in the vast chamber, much 
more alone than one would be in a smaller 
one. 


CHAPTER XXXII. ' 

CONCILIATION-. 

That night again, old Lady Alice, just set- 
tling, and having actually swallowed her 
drops, was disturfed by a visit from Lady 
Jane, who stood by her dishevelled, flushed, 
and with that storm-beaten look which 
weeping leaves behind it. She looked eager, 
even imploring, so that Lady Alice chal- 
lenged her with 

“ What on earth, Jane, brings you to my 
bedside at this hour of the night ?” 

“ I’ve come to tell you. Lady Alice, that I 
believe I was wrong the other night to speak 
to you as I did.” 

“ I thought, Jane,” replied the old lady 
with dignity, “you would come to view your 
conduct'in that light.” 

“ I thought you were right all the time ; 
that is, I thought you meant kindly. I 
wished to tell you so,” said Lady Jane. 

“ I am glad, Jane, you can now speak with 
temper.” 

“And I think you are the only person 
alive, except poor Lennox, who really cares 
for me.” 

“ I knew, Jane, that reflection and con- 
science would bring you to this form of 
mind,” said Lady Alice. 

“ And I think, when I come to say all this 
to you, you ought not to receive me so.” 

“ I meant to receive you kindly, Jane ; one 
can’t always in a moment forget the pain and 
humiliation which such scenes produce. It 
will help me, however, your expressing your 
regret as you do.” 


68 


GUY DEVERELL. 


^ Well, I believe I am a fool — I believe I 
deserve this kind of treatment for lowering 
myself as I have done. The idea of my com- 
ing in here, half dressed, to say all this, and 
being received in this— in this indescribable 
way !” 

“ If you don’t feel it, Jane, I’m sorry you 
should have expressed any sorrow for your 
misconduct,” replied Lady Alice, loftily. 

“ Sorrow, madam ! I never said a word 
about sorrow. I said I thought you cared 
for me, and I don’t think so now. I am sure 
jmu don’t, and I care just as little for you, not 
a pin, madam, with your ridiculous airs.” 

“ Very good, dear — then I suppose you are 
quite satisfied with your former conduct ?” 

“ Perfectly — of course I am, and if I had 
had a notion wfiiat kind of person you are I 
should not have come near you, I promise 
you.” 

Lady Alice smiled a patient smile, which 
somehow rather provoked the indignant pen- 
itent. 

“I’d as soon have put my hand in the fire, 
madam. I’ve borne too much from you — a 
great deal too much ; it is you who should 
have come to me, madam, and I don’t care a 
farthing about you.” 

“ And I’m still under sentence, I presume, 
when General Lennox returns vfith his horso- 
’whip,” suggested Lady Alice, meekly. 

“ It would do you nothing but good.” 

“ You are excessively impertinent^^'' said 
Lady Alice, a little losing her self-command. 

“ So are you, madam.” 

“ And I desire you’ll leave my room,” pur- 
sued Lad}' Alice. 

“ And don’t you address me while we re- 
main in this house,” exclaimed Lady Jane, 
with flaming cheeks. 

“ Quit the room !” cried Lady Alice, sitting 
up with preternatural rigidity. 

“ Open the door !” exclaimed Lady Jane, 
fiercely, to the scared maid, “ and carry this 
candle.” 

And the maid heard her mutter forcibly as 
she marched before her through the passage 
— “ wicked old frump.” 

I am afraid it was one of those cases of 
incompatibility of temper, or faults on both 
sides, in which it is, on the wfiiole, more for 
the interest of peace and goodwill that peo- 
ple should live apart, than attemiDt that pro- 
cess under the same roof. 

There was a smoking party that night in 
Sir Jekyl’s room. A line had reached him 
from General Lennox, regretting his long 
stay in town, and fearing that he could hardly 
hope to rejoin his agreeable party at Marlowe 
before a week or possibly ten days. But he 
hoped that they had not yet shot all the birds 
— and so, wfith that mild joke and its varia- 
tions, the letter humorously concluded. 

He had also had a letter from the London 
legal firm — this time the corresponding limb 
of the body was Crowe — who, in reply to 
some fresh interrogatories of the Baronet’s, 
wrote to say that his partner, Mr. Pelter, 
being called to Prance by legal business con- 
nected wdth Craddock and Maddox, it 
devolved on him to “ assure Sir Jekyl that. 


so far as they could ascertain, everything in 
the matter to which he referred was perfectly 
quiet, and that no ground existed for appre- 
hending any stir whatsoever.” 

These letters from Pelter and Crowe, wdio 
wxre shrewd and by no means sanguine men 
of business, had always a charming effect on 
his spirits — not that he quite required them, 
or that they gave him any new ideas or infor- 
mation, but they were pleasant little fillips, 
as compliments are to a beauty. He was 
therefore, this evening more than usually 
lively, and kept the conversation in a very 
merry amble. 

Guy Strangways was absent ; but his uncle, 
M. Yarbarriere, was present, and in his sol- 
emn, sly, porcine way, enjoyed himself with 
small exertion and much unction, laughing 
sometimes sardonically and "without noise, at 
things wdiich did not seem to amuse the oth- 
ers so much ; but, in all he said, very courte- 
ous, and in his demeanor suave and bow- 
ing. He was the last man to take leave of 
his host, on the threshold, that night. 

“ I always lock myself in,” said Sir Jekyl, 
observing his guest’s eye rest for a moment 
on the key, on which his own finger rested, 
“ and I can’t think why the plague I do,” he 
added, laughing, “ except that my father did 
so before me.” 

“ It makes your pleasant room more a her- 
mitage, and you more of a recluse,” said 
Monsieur Yarbarriere. 

“ It is very well to be a recluse at pleasure, 
and take monastic vows of five hours’ dura- 
tion, and shut yourself up from the world, 
and the key of the world, nevertheless, in 
your pocket,” said Sir Jekyl. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere laughed, and some- 
how lingered, as if he expected more. 

“ You don’t mean that you assert your lib- 
erty at capricious hours and affright your 
guests in the character of a ghost?” said 
Monsieur Yarbarriere, jocosely. 

Sir Jekyl laughed. 

“ No,” said he, “ on the contrary, I make 
myself more of a prisoner than you imagine. 
My man sleeps in the little room in which 
you now stand, and draws hia little camp- 
'bed across tlie door. I can’t tell you the 
least why I do this, only it was my father’s 
custom also, and I fancy my throat would be 
cut if my guard did not lie across the thresh- 
old. The world is a mad tree, and we are 
branches, says the Italian proverb. Good- 
night, Monsieur Yarbarriere.” 

“ Good-night,” said the guest, with a bow 
and a smile ; and both, with a little laugh, 
shook hands and parted. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was a tolerably early 
riser, and next morning was w^alking in the 
cheering sun, under the leaves of the ever- 
greens, glittering with dew. A broad w^alk, 
wide enough for a pony- carriage, sw^eeps 
along a gentle wooded elevation-, command- 
ing a wide prospect of that rich country. 

He leaned on the low parapet, and with 
his pocket field-glass lazily sw^ept the broad 
landscape beneath. Lowering his telescope, 
he stood erect, and looked about him, when, 
to his surprise, for he did not think that 


GUY DEVERELL. 


69 


either was an early riser, he saw Sir Jekyl 
Marlowe and Lady Jane Lennox walking 
side by side, and approaching. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was blessed with 
very long and clear sight, for his time of life. 
There was something in the gait of these 
two persons, and in the slight gesture that 
accompanied their conversation, as they ap- 
proached, which struck M. Yarbarriere as in- 
dicating excitement, though of different kinds. 

In the pace of the lady, who carried her 
head high, with a slight wave sometimes to 
this side, sometimes to that, was much of 
what we term swagger as is compatible with 
feminine grace. Sometimes a sudden halt, 
for a moment, and a “ left-face” movement 
on her companion. Sir Jeykl, on the other 
hand, bore himself, he thought, like a gentle- 
man, a good deal annoyed and irritated. 

All this struck M. Yarbarriere in a very 
few seconds, during which, uncertain whe- 
ther he ought to come forward or not, he 
hesitated where he stood. 

It was plain, however, that he was quite 
unobserved standing in a recess of the ever- 
greens; so he leaned once more upon the 
parapet, and applied his glass to his eye. 

Now he was right in his conjecture. This 
had been a very stormy walk; though the 
cool grey light of morning is not the season 
for exciting demonstrations. We will take 
them up in the midst of their conversation, 
a little before Monsieur Yarbarriere saw 
them— just as Sir Jekyl said with a slight 
sneer — 

“ Oh, of course, it was very kind.” 

“ More, it’s princely^ sir,” cried Lady Jane. 

“ Well, princely — very princely — only, 
pray, dear Jane, do not talk so very loud ; 
you can’t possibly wish the keepers and 
milkmaids to hear every word 5^011 say.” 

“ I don’t care, Jekyl." I think you have 
made me mad.” 

“ You are a bit mad, Jane, but it is not I 
who made you so.” 

“ Y^es, Jekyl, you’ve made me mad — you 
have made me a fiend ; but, bad as I am, I 
can never face that good man more.” 

“ Now don’t — now don’t. What can be 
the matter with you ?” urged Sir Jekyl in a 
low tone. 

“ This, sir— I’ll see him no more— you 
must. You shall take me away.” 

“ Now, now, now — come ! Are you talk- 
ing like a sane person, Janet? What the 
devil can have come over you about these 
trumpery diamonds ?” 

“ You shan’t talk that way.” 

“ Come ! I venture to say they are nothing 
like as valuable as you fancy, and whatever 
they are, Lennox got them a devilish good 
bargain, rely on it. He knows perfectly well 
what he is about. Everyone knows how 
rich he is, and the wife of a fellow like that 
ought to have jewels; people would talk — I 
give you my honor they would, if you had 
not ; and then he is in town, with nothing to 
keep bim there — no business, I mean— an old 
military man, and he ’wants to keep you in 
good humor.” 

“ It’s a lie. I know what you mean.” 


“ Upon my soul, it’s a fact,” he la.ughed, 
looking very pale. “ Surely you don’t mis- 
take an old East Indian general for a 
Joseph !” 

“ Talk any way but that, you wretch ! I 
know him. It’s no use — he’s, the soul of 
honor. Oh Jekyl, Jekyl ! why did not you 
marry me when you might, and save me 
from all this ?” 

“ Now, Janet is this reasonable — you know 
you never thought of it— you know it would 
not have done — would you have liked Beat- 
rix ? Besides, you have really done better 
— a great deal better — he’s not so old as he 
looks — I dare say not much older than I — 
and a devilish deal richer, and — a — what the 
devil you want, for the life of me, I can’t 
see.” 

It was about at this point in their conversa- 
tion, that, on a sudden, they came upon Mon- 
sieur Yarbarriere, looking through his field- 
glass. Lady Jane moved to turn short about, 
but Sir Jekyl pressed his arm on hers im- 
patiently, and kept her straight. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

LADY JANE AND BEATRIX PLAY AT 
CROQUET. 

“ Good morning. Monsieur Yarbarriere,” 
cried the Baronet, who divined truly that 
the fattish elderly gentleman with the 
bronzed features, and in the furred surtout, 
had observed them. . 

“ Ah !” cried Monsieur Yarbarriere, turn- 
ing toward them genially, his oddly-shaped 
felt hat in one hand, and his field-glass still 
extended in the other. “ What a charming 
morning ! I have been availing myself of 
the clear sunlight to study this splendid 
prospect, partly as a picture, partly as a 
map.’^ 

Lady Jane with her right hand plucked 
some wild flo^wers from the bank, which at 
that side rises steeply from the walk, while 
the gentlemen exchanged salutations. 

“ I’ve just been pointing out some of our 
famous places to Lady Jane Lennox. A little 
higher up the walk the view is much more 
commanding. What do you say to a walk 
here after breakfast ? There’s a capital glass 
in the hall, much more powerful than that 
can be. Suppose we come by-and-by?” 

‘•You are very good — I am so obliged — 
my curiosity has been so very much piqued 
by all I have seen.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was speaking, as 
usual, his familiar French, and pointed with 
his telescope toward a peculiarly shaped re- 
mote hillock. 

“ I have just been conjecturing could that 
be that Gryston which we passed by on our 
way to Marlowe.” 

“ Perfectly right, by Jove ! what an eye for 
locality you must have !” 

“Have I? Well, sometimes, perhaps,” 
said the foreign gentleman, laughing. 

“ The eye of a general. Y^es, you are quite 
right — it is Gryston.” 


70 


GUY DEVERELL. 


Now Sir Jekyl was frank and hearty in 
his talk ; but there was an air — a something 
which would ha7e excited the observation 
of Monsieur Varbarriere, even had he re- 
■"^marked nothing peculiar in the bearing of 
his host and his companion aa . they ap- 
proached There was a semi-abstraction, a 
covert scrutiny of that gentleman’s counten- 
ance, and a certain sense of uneasiness. 

Some more passed — enough to show that 
there was nothing in the slightest degree 
awkward to the two pedestrians in having so 
unexpectedly fallen into an ambuscade while 
on their route — and then Sir Jekyl, with a 
word of apology to Lady Jane, resumed his 
walk with her towards the pleasui’e-grounds 
near the house. 

That day Lady Jane played croquet with 
Beatrix, while Sir Jekyl demonstrated half 
the country, from the high grounds, to Mon- 
sieur Varbarriere. 

The croquet-ground is pretty — flower-beds 
lie round it, and a “ rockery,” as they called it, 
covered with clambering flowers and plants, 
and backed by a thick grove of shrubs and 
' evergreens, fenced it in to the north. 

Lady Jane was kind, ill tempered, capri- 
cious ; played wildly, lazily, badly. 

“ Do you like people in spite of great faults 
ever, Beatrix ?” she asked, suddenly. 

“ Every one has great faults,” said Trixie, 
sporting a little bit of philosophy. 

“ No, they have not ; there are very good 
people, and I hate them,” said Lady Jane, 
swinging her mallet slowly like a pendulum, 
and gazing with her dark deep eyes full into 
her companion’s face. 

“ Hate the good people !” exclaimed Beat- 
rix ; “ then how do you feel towards the bad ?” 

“ There are some whose badness suits me, 
and I like them ; there are others whose bad- 
ness does not, and them I hate as much as the 
good almost.” 

Trixie was puzzled ; but shN3 concluded 
Lady Jane was in one of her odd moods, and 
venting her ill-temper in those shocking 
eruptions of levity. 

“ How old are you, Beatrix ?” 

“ Nineteen.” 

“ Ha ! and I am five - and - twenty — six 
years. There is a great deal learned in those 
six years. I don’t recollect what I was like 
when 1 was nineteen.” 

She did not sigh ; Lady Jane was not given 
to sighing, but her face looked sad and sullen. 

“ It all came of my having no friend,” she 
said, abruptly. “ Not one. That stupid old 
woman might have been one, but she would 
not. I had no one — it was fate ; and here I 
am, such as I am, and I don’t blame myself 
or anything. But I wish I had one true 
friend.” 

“ I am sure. Lady Jane, you must have 
many friends,” said Beatrix. 

“ Don’t be a little hypocrite, Beatrix ; why 
should I more than another? Friends are 
not picked up like the daisies as we walk 
along. If you have neither mother nor sisters, 
nor kith nor kin to care about you, you will 
find it hard to make strangers do so. As for 
old Lady Alice, I think she always hated me ; 


she did nothing but pick holes in everything 
I said or did ; I never heard anything from 
her but the old story of my faults. And then 
I was thrown among women of the world — 
heartless, headless creatures. I don’t blame 
them, they knew no better— perhaps there is 
no better ; but I do blame that egotistical old 
woman, who, if she had but controlled her 
temper, might have been of so much use to 
me, and would not. Religion, and good prin 
ciples, and all that, whether it is true or false 
is the safest plan ; and I think if she had been 
moderately kind and patient, she might have 
made me as good as others. Don’t look at me 
as if I had two heads, dear. I’m not charg- 
ing myself with any enormity. I only say it 
is the happiest way, even if it be the way of 
fools.” 

“ Shall we play any more ?” inquired Beat- 
rix, after a sufficient pause had intervened to 
soften the transition. 

“ Yes, certainly. Which is my ball ?” 

“ The red. You are behind your hoop.” 

“ Yes ; and — and it seems to me, Beatrix, 
jmu are a cold little stick, like your grand- 
mamma, as you call her, though she’s no 
grandmamma of yours.” 

“ Think me as stupid as you please, but you 
must not think me cold ; and, indeed, you 
wrong poor old -granny.” 

“ We’ll talk no more of her. I think her 
a fool and a savage. Come, it’s your turn, is 
not it, to play ?” 

So the play went on for a while in silence, 
except for those questions and comments 
without which it can hardly proceed. 

“ And now you have won, have not you ?’ ’ 
said Lady Jane. 

“ Should you like another game ?” asked 
Beatrix. 

“ Maybe by-and-by ; and — I sometimes 
wish you liked me, Beatrix ; but I don’t 
know you, and you are little better than a 
child still ; and— no — it could not be— it nev- 
er could — you'd be sure to hate me in a lit- 
tle while.” 

“ But I do like you. Lady Jane. I liked 
you very much in London, you were so kind ; 
and I don’t know why you were so changed 
to me when you came here; you seem to 
have taken a positive dislike to me.” 

“So I had, child— I detested you,” said 
Lady Jane, but in a tone that had something 
mocking in it. “ Everything has grown — 
how shall I express it ? — disgusting m me — 
yes, disgusting. You had done nothing to 
cause it ; you need not look so contrite. I 
could not help it either. I am odious — and I 
can’t love or like anybody.” 

“ I am sure. Lady Jane, you are not at all 
like what you describe.” 

“ You think me faultless, do you?” 

Beatrix smiled. ' 

“ Well, I see you don’t. What is my 
fault ?” demanded Lady Jane, looking on her 
not with a playful, but with a lowering 
countenance. 

“It is a very conceited office— pointing 
out other people’s faults, even if one under- 
stood them, which I do not.” 

“ Well, I give you leave ; tell me' one, 


GUY DEYERELL. 


to begin with,” persisted Lady Jane Len-. 
uox. 

Beatrix laughed. 

“ I wish, Lady Jane, if you insist on my 
telling your faults, that you would not look 
so stern.” 

“Stern— do I?” said Lady Jane; “I did 
not intend ; it was not with you, but myself, 
that I was angry ; not angry either, for my 
faults have been caused by other people, and 
to say truth, I don’t very much wish to mend 
them.” 

“No, Lady Jane,” said Beatrix, merrily, 
“ I won’t say in cold blood anything dis- 
agreeable. I don’t say, mind, that I really 
could tell you any one fault you may fancy 
you have — but I won’t try. ” • 

“ Well, let us walk round this oval ; I’ll 
tell you what you think. You think I am 
capricious— and so I may appear — but I am 
not ; on the contrary, my likings or aver- 
sions are always on good grounds, and last 
very long. I don’t say people always know 
the grounds, but they* know it is not whim ; 
the}'- know — those that have experienced 
either — that my love and aversion are both 
very steady. You think I am ill-tempered, 
too, but I am not — I am isolated and un- 
happy; but my temper is easy to get on 
with — and I don’t know why I am talking 
to you,” she exclaimed, with a sudden change 
in her looks and tone, “ as if you and I 
could ever by any possibility become friends. 
Good-bye, Beatrix ; I see your grandmamma 
beckoning.” 

So she was— Jeaning upon the arm of her 
maid, a wan lank figure — motioning her 
toward her. 

“ Coming, grandmamma,” cried Beatrix, 
and smiled, and turning to say a parting 
word to Lady Jane’, she perceived that she 
was already moving some way off toward 
the house. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

GENERAL LENNOX RECEIVES A LETTER. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was charmed 
with his host this morning. Sir Jekyl spent 
more than an hour in pointing out and illus- 
trating the principal objects in the panorama 
that spread before and beneath them as they 
stood with field-glasses scanning the distance, 
and a very agreeable showman he made. 

Yery cheery and healthful among the 
breezy copse to make this sort of rural sur- 
vey. As they parted in the hall. Monsieur 
Yarbarriere spoke his eloquent appreciation 
of the beauties of the surrounding country ; 
and then, having letters to despatch by the 
post, he took his leave, and strode up with 
pounding steps to his dressing-room. 

Long before he reached it, his smile had 
quite subsided, and it was with a solemn and 
stern countenance that he entered and 
nodded to his valet, whom he found awaiting 
him there. 

“ Well, Jacques, any more offers? Does 
Sir Jekyl still wish to engage you ?” | 


71 

“ I can assure Monsieur there has not been 
a word since upon that affair.” 

“ Qoodr said Monsieur Yarbarriere, after 
a second’s scrutiny of the valet’s dark, smirkh' 
ing visage. 

The elderly gentleman unlocked his desk, 
and taking forth a large envelope, he un- 
folded the papers enclosed in it. 

“ Have we anything to note to-day about 
that apartment verd ? Did you manage the 
measurement of the two recesses ?” 

“ They are three feet and a half wide; two 
feet and a half deep, and the pier between 
them is, counting in tlie carved case, ten feet 
and six inches ; and there is from the angle 
...of the room at each side, that next the win- 
dow and that opposite, to the angle of the 
same recesses, counting in, in like manner, 
the carved case, two feet and six inches ex- 
actly. Here Monsieur has the threads of 
measurement,” added Jacques, with a charm- 
ing bow, handing a little paper, containing 
certain pieces of tape cut at proper lengths 
and noted in pen and ink, to his master. 

“ Were you in the room yourself since ?” 

“ This afternoon I am promised to be 
again introduced.” 

“ Try both — particularly that to your 
right as you stand near the door — and rap 
them with your knuckles, and search as nar- 
rowly as you can.” 

Monsieur Jacques bowed low and smiled. 

“And now about the other room,” said 
Monsieur Yarbarriere ; “ have you had an op- 
portunity ?” 

“ I have enjoyed the permission of visiting 
it, by the kindness of Sir Jekyl’s man.” 

“ He does not suppose any object ?” in- 
quired Monsieur Yarbarriere. 

“ None in the world— nothing — merely the 
curiosity of seeing everything which is com- 
mon in persons of my rank.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere smiled dimly. 

“ Well, there is a room opening at the back 
of Sir Jekyl’s room— what is it ?” 

“ His study.” 

Yarbarriere nodded— “ Go on.” 

“ A room about the same size, surrounded l 
on all sides except the window with books 
packed on shelves.” 

“ Where is the door ?” 

“ There is no door, visible at least, ex- 
cept that by which one enters from Sir 
Jekyl Marlowe’s room,” answered Monsieur 
J acques. 

“ Any sign of a door ?” 

Monsieur J acques smiled a little mysteri- 
ously. 

“ When my friend. Monsieur Tomlinson, 
Sir Jekyl’f* gentleman, had left me alone for 
a few mirivtes, to look at some old books of 
travels with engravings, for which 1 had al- 
ways a liking, I did use my eyes a little. Mon- 
sieur, upon other subjects, but could see 
nothing. Then, with the head of my stick I 
took the liberty to knock a little upon the 
shelves, and one place I did find where the 
books are not real, but made of wood.” 

“ Made of wood ?” repeated Monsieur Yar- 
barriere. 

“ Yes— bound over to imitate the tomes; 


72 


GUY DEVERELL. 


and all as old and dingy as the books them- 
selves.” 

“ You knew by the sound ?” 

“ Yes, Monsieur, by the sound. I removed, 
moreover, a real book»at the side, and I saw 
there wood.” 

“ Whereabout is that in the wall ?” 

“ JSText to the corner. Monsieur, which is 
formed by the wall in which the windows 
are set — it is a dark corner, nearly opposite 
the door by which you enter.” 

“ That’s a door,” said Monsieur Varbar- 
riere, rising deliberately as if he were about 
to walk through it. 

“ I think Monsieur conjectures sagely.” 

“ What more did you see, Jacques ?” de- 
manded Monsieur Yarbarriere, resuming his 
seat quietly. 

“ Nothing, Monsieur ; for my good friend 
returned just then, and occupied my atten- 
tion otherwise.” 

“ You did not give him a hint of your dis- 
covery ?” 

“ Not a word, sir.” 

“ Jacques, you must see that room again, 
quietly. You are very much interested, you 
know, in those books of travel. When you 
have a minute there to yourself again, you 
will take down in turn every volume at each 
side of that false bookcase, and search close, 
ly for hinge or bolt — there must be some- 
thing of the kind — or keyhole — do you see ? 
Rely upon me, I will not fail to consider the 
service handsomely. Manage that, if possi- 
ble, to-day.” 

“ I will do all my possible. Monsieur.” 

“ I depend upon you, Jacques. Adieu.” 

With a low bow and a smirk, Jacques de- 
parted. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere bolted his dressing- 
room door, and sat down musing mysterious- 
ly before his paper. His large, fattish, 
freckled hand hung down over the arm of 
the low chair, nearly to the carpet, with his 
heavy gold pencil-case in its fingers. He 
heaved one deep, unconscious sigh, as he 
leaned back. It was not that he quailed be- 
fore any coming crisis. He was not a soft- 
hearted or nervous general, and had quite 
made up his mind. But he -was not without 
good nature in ordinary cases, and the page 
he was about to open was full of terror and 
bordered all round with black. 

Lady Jane Lennox was at that moment 
seated also before her desk, veiy pale, and 
writing a few v^ry grateful and humble lines 
of thanks to her General — vehement thanks 
— vehement self-abasement — such as sur- 
prised him quite delightfully. He read them 
over and over, smiling with all his might, 
under his stiff white moustache, and with a 
happy moisture in his twinkling grey eyes, 
and many a murmured apostrophe, “ Poor 
little thing — how pleased she is — poor litUe 
Janet!” and resolved how happy they two 
should be, and how much sunshine was 
breaking into their world. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was sitting in deep 
thought before his desk. 

“ Yes, I think I may,” was the result of 
his ruminations. 


And in his bold clear hand he indited 
the following letter, which we translate 

Private and Confidential. 

Marlowe Manor, — th October, 1849. 

General Lennox. 

Sm, — I, in the first place, beg you to ex- 
cuse the apparent presumption of my solic- 
iting a private audience of a gentleman to 
whom I have the honor to be but so slightly 
known, and of claiming the protection of an 
honorable secrecy. The reason of my so do- 
ing will be obvious w’'hen f say that I have 
certain circumstances to lay before you 
which nearly affect your honor. 1 decline 
making any detailed statement by letter, nor 
will 1 explain my meaning at Marlowe 
Manor ; but if, witliout /racas, you will give 
me a private meeting, at any place between 
this and London, I will make it my business 
to see you, when I shall satisfy j^ou that I 
have not made this request without the grav- 
est reasons. May I entreat that your reply 
may be addressed to me, poste restante, 
Slowton. 

Accept the assurance, &c., &c., &c., 

H. Yarbarriere. 

Thus was the angelic messenger, musical 
with silvery wings, who visited honest Gen- 
eral Lennox in his lodgings off Piccadilly, 
accompanied all the way, in the long flight 
from Slowton to the London terminus, by a 
dark spirit of compensation, to appal him 
with a doubt. 

Yarbarriere’s letter had been posted at 
Wardlock by his own servant Jacques — a 
precaution he chose to adopt, as he did not 
care that anyone at the little town of Mar- 
lowe, far less at the Manor, should guess 
that he had anything on earth to say to Gen- 
eral Lennox. 

When the two letters reached that old 
gentleman, he opened Lady Jane's first ; for, 
as we know, he had arrived at the amorous 
age, and was impatient to read what his 
little Jennie had to say ; and when he had 
read it once, he had of course to read it all 
over again ; then he kissed it and laughed 
tremulously over it, and was nearer to ciy- 
ing than he would have confessed to anyone 
— even to her ; and he read it again at the 
window, wdiere he was seen by seedy Cap- 
tain Fezzy, who was reading BelVs Life^ 
across the street, in the three-pair-of-stairs 
wdndow, and by Miss Dignum, the proprie- 
tress, from the drawdng-room, with a counte- 
nance so radiant and moved as to interest 
both spectators from their different points 
of view^ 

Thus, with many re-perusals and pleasant 
castle-buildings, and some airs gently 
whistle^d in his reveries, he had nearly for 
gotten M. Yarbarriere’s letter. 

He was so gratified — he alwa5^s knewr she 
cared for her old man, little Jennie — she was 
not demonstrative, all the better perhaps for 
that ; and here, in this delightful letter, so 
grateful, so sad, so humble, it was all con- 
fessed — demonstrated, at last ; and old Gen- 
eral Lennox thought infinitely better of him- 


GUY DEVERELL. 


self, and far more adoringly of his wife than 
ever, and was indescribably proud and 
happy. Hitherto his good angel had had it 
all his own way, the other spirit 'was now 
about to take his turn— touched him on the 
elbow and presented Monsieur Varbarriere’s 
letter, with a dark smile. 

“Rear forgetting this, b}^ Jove !” said the 
old gentleman with the white moustache and 
eyebrows, taking the letter in his gnarled 
pink fingers. 

“ What the devil can the fellow mean ?” 
I think he’s a fool,” said the General, very 
pale and stern, when he had read the letter 
twice through. 

If the people at the other side had been 
studying the transition of human counte- 
nance, they would have had a treat in the 
General’s, now again presented at his draw- 
ing-room window, where he stood leaning 
grimly on liis knuckles. 

Still oftener, and more microscopically, 
was this letter spelled over than the other. 

“ It can’t possibly refer to Jane. It cariJt. 
I put that out of my head — quite^' said the 
poor General energetically to himself, with a 
short wave of his hand like a little sabre-cut 
in the air. 

But what could it be ? He had no kins- 
man near enough in blood to “ affect his 
honor.” But these French fellows had such 
queer phrases. The only transaction he 
could think of was the sale of his black 
charger in Calcutta for two hundred guineas, 
to that ill-conditioned fellow. Colonel Bar- 
dell, who, he heard, had been grumbling 
about that bargain, as he did about every 
other. 

“ I should not be surprised if he said I 
cheated him about that horse !” 

And he felt quite obliged to Colonel Bar- 
dell for affording this hypothesis. 

“Yes, Bardellwas coming to England — 
possibly at Marlowe now. He knows Sir 
Jekyl. Egad, that’s the very thing. He’s 
been talking ; and this officious old French 
bourgeois thinks he’s doing a devilish polite 
thing in telling me what a suspected dog I 
am.” 

The General laughed, and breathed a 
great sigh of relief, and recalled all the cases 
he could bring up in which fellows had got 
into scrapes unwittingly about horse-flesh, 
and how savagely fellows sometimes spoke 
when they did not like their bargains. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

TUE BISHOP AT MARLOWE. 

So he labored in favor of his hypothesis 
with an uneasy sort of success ; but, for a few 
seconds, on one sore point of his heart had 
there been a pressure, new, utterly agonizing, 
and there remained the sense of contusion. 

The General took his hat, and came and 
walked off briskly into tlie city a long way, 
thinking he had business; but when he 
reached the office, preferring another day 
—wishing to be back at Marlowe — wishing 


73 

to see Varbarriere — longing to know the 
worst. 

At last he turned into a city coffee-house, 
and wrote a reply on a quarto sheet of letter- 
paper to Monsieur Varbarriere. He was 
minded first to treat the whole thing with a 
well-bred contempt, and simply to mention 
that as he expected soon to be at Marlowe, 
he would not give Monsieur Varbarriere 
the trouble of making an appointment else- 
where. 

But, seated in his box, he read Monsieur 
Varbarriere’s short letter over again before 
committing himself, and it struck him that 
it was not an intimation to be trifled with — 
it had a certain gravity which did not lose its 
its force by frequent reading. The gentle- 
man himself, too — reserved, shrewd, with an 
odd mixture of the unctuous and the sar- 
donic — his recollection of this person, the 
writer, came unpleasantly in aid of the serious 
impression which his letter was calculated 
to make ; and he read again — 

“ I have certain circumstances to lay be- 
fore you which nearly affect your honor.” 

The words smote his heart again with a 
tremendous augury; somehow they would 
not quite fit his hypothesis about the horse, 
but it might be something else. Was there 
Q.nj lady wdio might conceive herself jilted ? 
Who could guess- what it might be ? 

Jennie’s letter he then read again in his 
box, with the smell of beef-steaks, the glitter 
of pewter pots, and the tread of w'aiters 
about him. 

Yes-, it was — he defied the devil himself 
to question it — an affectionate, loving, grate- 
ful letter. And Lady Alice had gone to 
Marlowe, and was staying there — Lady Alice 
Redcliffe, that stiff, austere duenna — Jane’s 
kinswoman. He was glad of it, and often 
thinking of it. But, no — oh ! no — it could 
not possibly refer to Jane: upon that point 
he had perfectly made up his mind. 

Well, with his pen bet^ween his fingers, 
he considered wffien he could go, and where 
he should meet this vulgar Frenchman. He 
could not leave London to-morrow, nor next 
day, and the day following he had to give 
evidence on the question of compensation to 
that native prince, and so on ; so at last he 
wrote, naming the nearest day he could com- 
mand, and requesting, in a postscript which 
he opened the letter to add, that Monsieur 
Varbarriere would be so very good as to let 
him know a little more distinctly to what 
specific subject his letter referred, as he had 
in vain taxed his recollection for the slightest 
clue to his meaning; and although he was 
prefectly satisfied he could not have the 
smallest difficulty in clearing up anything 
that could possibly be alleged against him as 
a soldier or a gentleman — having, he thanked 
Heaven, accomplished his career with honor 
— yet he could not feel quite comfortable 
until he heard something more explicit. 

As the General, with the letter in his 
pocket, was hurrying to the post-office, the 
party at Marlowe were admiring a glorious 
sunset, and Monsieur Varbarriere was de- 
scribing to Lady Jane Lennox some gorgeous 


74 


GUY DEVEKELL. 


effect of sunliglit wnich lie had witnessed 
from Lisbon on the horizon of the Atlantic. 

The Bishop had already arrived, and was 
in his dressing-room, and Dives was more 
silent and thoughtful than usual. 

Yes, the Bishop had arrived. He was 
venerable, dignified, dapper, with, for his 
time of life, a wonderfully shapely leg in his 
black silk stocking. There was in his man- 
ner and tones that suavity which reminds 
one at the same time of heaven and the 
House of Lords. He did not laugh. He 
smiled and bowed sometimes. There was a 
classical flavor in his conversation with gen- 
tlemen, and he sometimes conversed with 
ladies, his leg crossed horizontally, the ankle 
• resting on his knee, while he mildly stroked 
the shapely limb I have mentioned, and 
murmured well-bred Christianity, to which, 
as well as to his secular narratives, the ladies 
listened respectfully. 

Don't suppose he was a hypocrite or a 
Pharisee. He was as honest as most men, 
and better than many Christians. He was a 
bachelor, and wealthy ; but if he had amassed 
a good deal of public money, he had also dis- 
played a good deal of public spirit, and had 
done many princely and even some kind 
actions. His family were not presentable, 
making a livelihood by unmentionable prac- 
tices, such as shopkeeping and the like. 
Still he cut them with moderation, having 
maintained affable though clandestine rela- 
tions with his two maiden aunts, who lived 
and died in Thames Street, and having twice 
assisted a nephew, though he declined- seeing 
him, who was a skipper of a Russian brig. 

He was a little High-Church. But though 
a disciplinarian in ecclesiastical matters, and 
with notions about self-mortification, his rule 
as master of the great school he had once 
governed had been kind and popular as well 
as firm. I do not know exactly wdiat interest 
got him his bishopric. Perhaps it wms his 
reputation only ; and that he was thinking 
of duty and his fasts, and waked in his cell 
one morning with a mitre on instead of his 
night-cap. The Trappist, mayhap, in digging 
his grave had lighted on a pot of gold. 

“ I had no idea,” exclaimed Miss Blunket, 
wdien the Bishop’s apron and silk stockings 
had moved with the Rev. Dives Marlowe to 
the opposite extremity of the drawing-room, 
where the attentive Rector was«soon deep in 
demonstrations, which evidently interested 
the right reverend prelate much, drawn 
from some manuscript notes of an ancestor 
of Dives’ who had filled that see, which had 
long known him no more, and where he had 
been sharp in his day in looking up obscure 
rights and neglected revenues. 

*“ I had no idea the bishop w^as so young ; 
he’s by no means an old-looking man ; and so 
very admirable a prelate — is not he ?” 

“ He has neglected one of St. Paul’s condi- 
tions though,” said Sir Jekyl; “ but you will 
not think the worse of him for that. It may 
be mended, you know\” 

“ What’s that?” inquired Miss Blunket. 

“ Why, he is not the husband of one wife.” 

Honsense, you wretch !” cried Miss Blun- 


ket, with a giggle, jerking a violet which she 
was twiddling between her fingers at the 
Baronet. 

“ He has written a great deal, has not 
he ?” continued Miss Blunket. “ His tract 
on mortification has gone to fifteen thousand 
copies, I see by the newspaper.” 

“ I wonder he has never married,” inter- 
posed Lady Blunket, drowsily, with her 
usual attention to the context. 

“ I wonder he never tried it as a species of 
mortification,” suggested Sir Jekyl. 

“ Y^ou horrid Vandal ! Do you hear him, 
mamma ?” exclaimed Miss Blunket. 

Lady Blunket rather testily — for she neither 
heard nor understood very well, and her 
daughter’s voice was shrill — asked — 

“ What is it? You are always making 
mountains of molehills, my dear, and startling 
one.” 

Old Lady Alice Redcliffe’s entrance at this 
moment made a diversion. She entered, tall, 
gray, and shaky, leaning on the arm of pretty 
Beatrix, and was encountered near the door 
by the right reverend prelate, who greeted 
her with a dignified and apostolic gallantry, 
which contrasted finely with Sir Jekyl’s 
jaunty and hilarious salutation. 

The Bishop was very much changed since 
she had seen him last. He, no doubt, thought 
the same of her. Neither intimated this 
little reflection to the other. Each estimated, 
with something of wonder and pity, the 
other’s decay, and neither appropriated the 
lesson. 

“ I dare say you think me very much 
altered,” said Lady Alice, so soon as she 
had made herself comfortable on the otto- 
man. 

“ I was about putting the same inquiry of 
myself. Lady Alice ; but, alas ! -why should 
we ? ‘ Never continueth in one stay,’ you 
know ; change is the universal law, and the 
greatest, last.” 

The excellent prelate delivered this ex 
cathredra^ as an immortal to a mortal. It 
was his duty to impress old Lady Alice, and 
he courteously included himself, being a 
modest priest, who talked of sin and death 
as if bishops were equally subject to them 
with other men. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

OLD SCENES RECALLED. 

At dinner the prelate, who sat beside Lady 
Alice, conversed in the same condescending 
spirit, and with the same dignified humility, 
upon all sorts of subjects — upon the new 
sect, the Huggletonians, whom, with doubt- 
ful originality, but considerable emphasis, he 
likened to “ lost sheep.” 

“ Who’s lost his sheep, my lord ?” inquired 
Sir Paul Blunket across the table. 

“ I spoke metaphorically. Sir Paul. The 
Huggletonians, the sheep who should have 
been led by the waters of comfort, have been 
suffered to stray into the wilderness.” 

“ Quite so — I see. Shocking name that — 
the Huggletonians. I should not like to be 


GUY DEVERELL. 


7 o 


a Iluggletonian, egad !” said Sir Paul Blun- 
ket, and drank some wine. “ Lost slieep, to 
be sure— ye^; but that thing of bringing 
slieep to water — you see— it’s a mistake. 
When a wether takes to drinking water, it’s 
a sign he’s got the rot.” 

The Bishop gently declined his head, and 
patiently allowed this little observation to 
blow over. , 

Sir Paul Blunket, having delivered it, 
merely added, after a decent pause, as he ate 
his dinner — 

“ Dartbroke mutton this— five years old — 
eh ?” 

“Yes. I hope you like it,” answered his 
host. 

Sir Paul Blunket, having a bit in his 
mouth, grunted politely— 

“ Only for your own table, though ?” he 
added, when lie’d swallowed it. 

“ That’s all,” answered Sir Jekyl. 

“ Never pay at market, you know,” said 
Sir Paul Blunket. “ I consider any sheep 
kept beyond two years as lost.” 

“ A lost sheep, and sell him as a Huggle- 
tonian,” rejoined Sir Jekyl. 

“ It is twenty years,” murmured the Bishop 
in Lady Alice’s ear, for he preferred not 
hearing that kind of joke, “ since I sate in 
this parlor.” 

“ Ha !” sighed Lady Alice. 

“Long before that I used, in poor Sir 
Harry’s time to be there a good deal — a hos- 
pitable, kind man in the main.” 

“ I never liked him,” croaked Lady Alice, 
and wiped her mouth. 

They sat so very close to Sir Jekyl that the 
Bishop merely uttered a mild ejaculation, 
and bowed toward his plate. 

“ The arrangements of ihis room — the por- 
traits— are just what I remember them.” 

“ Yes, and you were here — let me see — 
just thirty years since, when Sir Harry died 
— weren’t you ?” 

“ So I was, my dear Lady Alice— very 
true,” replied the Bishop in his most subdued 
tones, and he threw his head back a little, 
and nearly closed his eyes ; and she fancied 
he meant, in a dignified way, to say, ‘ I 
should prefer not speaking of those particular 
recollections while we sit so near our host. 
The old lady was much of the same mind, 
and said to him quietly— 

“ I’ll ask you a few questions by-aud-by. 
You remember Donica Gwynn. She’s living 
with me now- -the housekeeper, you know.” 

“ Yes, perfectly, a very nice-looking quiet 
young woman — how is she ?” 

“ A dried-up old woman now, but very 
well,” said Lady Alice. 

“ Yes, to be sure ; she must be elderly 
now,” said he, hastily ; and the Bishop men- 
tally made up one of those little sums in ad- 
dition, the result of which surprises us 
sometimes in our elderly days so oddly. 

AYhen the party transferred themselves to 
the drawing-room. Lady Alice failed to se- 
cure the Bishop, who was seized by the Rev. 
Dives Marlowe and carried into a recess — 
Sir Jekyl having given his clerical brother 
the key of a cabinet in which were deposited 


more of the memoranda, and a handsome 
collection of the official and legal correspon- 
dence of that episcopal ancestor whose agree- 
able MSS. had interested the Bishop so much 
before dinner. 

Jekyl, indeed, was a good-natured brother. 
As a match-making mother -will get the 
proper persons under the same roof, he had 
managed this little meeting at Marlowe. 
When the ladies went away to the drawing- 
room, he had cried — 

“ Dives, I want you here for a moment,” 
and so he placed him on the chair which 
Lady Jane Lennox had occupied beside him, 
and what was more to the purpose, beside 
the Bishop ; and, as Dives was a good schol- 
ar, well made up in controversies, with a 
very pretty notion of ecclesiastical law and a 
turn for Latin verse, he and the prelate were 
soon in a state of very happy and intimate 
confidence. This cabinet, too, w^as what the 
game of chess is to the lovers — a great oppor- 
tunity — a seclusion ; and Dives knowing all 
about the papers, was enabled really to in- 
terest the Bishop very keenly. 

So Lady Alice, who wanted to talk with 
him, was doomed to a jealous isolation, until 
that friend, of whom she was gradually com- 
ing to think very highly indeed. Monsieur 
Yarbarriere, drew near, and they fell into 
conversation, first on the recent railway col- 
lision, and then on the fruit and flower show, 
and next upon the Bishop. 

They both agreed wdiat a charming and 
venerable person he was, and then Lady 
Alice said — 

“ Sir Harry Marlowe, I told 3^011 — the 
father, you know, of Jekyl there,” and she 
dropped her voice as she named him, “ w^as 
in possession at the time when the deed 
affecting 1113^ beloved son’s lights was lost.” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ And it was the Bishop there who attend- 
ed him on his death-bed.” 

“ Ho I” exclaimed M. Yarbarriere, looking 
more curiously for a moment at that dapper 
little gentleman in the silk apron. 

“ They said he heard a great deal from poor, 
wretched Sir Harry. I have never had an 
opportunity of asking ‘him in private about 
it, but I mean to-morrow, please Heaven.” 

“ It may be, madame, in the highest degree 
important,” said Monsieur Yarbarriere, em- 
phatically. 

“ How can it be ? My son is dead.” 

“ Your son is” and M. Yarbarriere, 

who was speaking sternly and with a pallid 
face, like a man deeply excited, suddenly 
checked himself, and said — 

“ Yes, very true, your son is dead. Yes, 
madame, he is dead.” 

Old Lady Alice looked at him with a be- 
wildered and frightened gaze. 

“ In Heaven’s name, sir, what do you 
mean ?” 

“ Mean — mean— why, what have I said ?” 
exclaimed Monsieur Yarbarriere, very tartly, 
and looking still more uncomfortable. 

“ I did not say you had said anything, but 
you do mean something.” 

“ No, madame, I forgot something ; the 


76 


GUY DEVERELL. 


tragedy to which you referred is not to be 
supposed to be always as present to the mind 
of another as it naturally is to your own. 
We forget in a moment of surprise many 
things of which at another time we need not 
to be reminded, and so it happened with 
me.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere stood up and fiddled 
with his gold double eye-glasses, and seemed 
for a while disposed to add more on that 
theme, but, after a pause, said — 

“And so it was to the Bishop that Sir 
Harry Marlowe communicated his dying 
wish that the green chanber should be shut 
up ?” 

“ Yes, to him ; and I have heard that more 
passed than is suspected, but of that I know 
nothing ; only I mean to put the question 
to him directly, when next I can see him 
alone.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere again looked with a 
curious scrutiny at the Bishop, and then he 
inquired — 

“ He is a prelate, no doubt, who enjoys a 
high reputation for integrity ?” 

“This I know, that he would not for 
worlds utter an untruth,” replied Lady Alice. 

“ What a charming person is Lady Jane 
Lennox!” exclaimed Monsieur Yarbarriere, 
suddenly diverging. 

“ H’m ! do you think so? Well, yes, she 
is very much admired.” 

It is not often you see a pair so unequal 
in years so affectionately attached,” said 
Monsieur Yarbarriere. 

“ I have never seen her husband, and I 
can't, therefore, say how they get on toge- 
ther ; but I am glad to hear you say so. Jane 
has. a temper, you know, -which every one 
might not get on with ; that is,” she added, 
fearing lest she had gone a little too far, 
“ sometimes it is not quite pleasant.” 

“ No, I doubt she was much admired and 
much pursued,” observed Yarbarriere. 

“ Yes, I said she was admired,” answered 
Lady Alice, dryly. 

“ How charming she looks, reading her 
book at this moment 1” exclaimed Yabarriere. 

She was leaning back on an ottoman, with a 
book in her hand ; her rich wavy hair, her 
jewels and splendid dress, her beautiful 
braceleted arms, and exquisitely haughty 
features, and a certain negligence in her pose^ 
recalled some of those voluptuous portraits 
of the beauties of the Court of Charles II. 

Sir Jekyl was seated on the other side of 
the cushioned circle, leaning a little across, 
and talking volubly, and, as it seemed, 
earnestly. It is one of those groups in 
which, marking the silence of the lady and 
the serious earnestness of her companion, 
and the flush of both countenances, one con- 
cludes, if there be nothing to forbid, that the 
talk is at least romantic. 

Lady Alice was reserved, however; she 
merely said — 

“ Yes, Jane looks very well ; she’s alw^ays 
well got up.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere saw her glance with 
a shrewd little frown of scrutiny at the 
Baronet and Lady Jane, and he knew what 


was passing in her mind ; she, too, suspected 
what was in his, for she glanced at him, and 
their eyes met for a momeflt and were 
averted. Each knew what the other was 
thinking ; so Lady Alice said — 

“ For an old gentleman, Jekyl is the most 
romantic I know ; when he has had his wine, 
I think he’d flirt with any woman alive. I 
dare say he’s boring poor Jane to death, if 
we knew but all. She can’t read her book. 
I assure you I’ve seen him, when nobody 
better was to be had, making love to old 
Susan Blunket — Miss Blunket there— after 
dinner, of course : and by the time he has 
played his rubber of whist he’s quite a sane 
man, and continues so until he comes in 
after dinner next evening. We all know 
Jekyl, and never mind him.” 

Having thus spoken, she asked Monsieur 
Yarbarriere whether he intended a long stay 
in England, and a variety of similar ques- 
tions. 


CHAPTER XXXYII. 

m WHICH LADY ALICE PUMPS THE BISHOP. 

Lady Jane Lenhox, who complained of a 
headache, departed early for her room. The 
Baronet’s passion for whist returned, and he 
played with more than his usual spirit and 
hilarity ; Monsieur Yarbarriere, his partner, 
was also in great force, and made some very 
creditable sallies between the deals. All 
went, in fact, merry as a marriage-bell. But 
in that marriage-bell booms unmarked the 
selfsame tone which thrills in the funeral- 
knell. There was its somewhat of bitter 
rising probably in each merry soul in that 
ga}" room. Black care walked silently among 
those smiling guests, and on an unseen salver 
presented to each his sprig of rue or rose- 
mary. Another figure also, lank, obsequi- 
ous, smirking dolorously, arrayed in the 
Marlowe livery, came in with a bow, and 
stood with an hour-glass in his long yellow 
claw at the back of Sir Jekyl’ s chair ; you 
might see the faint lights of his hollow eyes 
reflected on the Baronet’s cards. 

“ A little chilly to-night, is not it ?” said 
Sir Jekyl, and shook his shoulders. “ Have 
we quite light enough, do you think ?” 

In that serene company there were t-wo 
hearts specially sore, each with a totally dif- 
ferent anguish. 

In Lady Alice’s old ears continually beat 

these words, “ Your son is” — ^ ending, 

like an interrupted dreain, in nothing. 
Before her eyes was Yarbarriere’s disturbed 
countenance as he dropped the curtain over 
his meaning, and affected to have forgotten 
the death of Guy Deverell. 

“Your son is” Merciful Heaven! 

could he have meant living ? 

Could that shape she had seen in its coffin, 
with the small blue mark in its serene fore- 
head, where the bullet had entered, been a 
simulacrum — not her son — a cast — a fraud ? 

Her reason told her loudly such a thought 
was mere insanity ; and yet what could that 
sudden break in Yarbarriere’s sentence have 


GUY DEVERELL. 


77 


\ 


been meant to conceal, and wliat did that re- 
coiling look imply ? 

“ Your son is” — ■ It was for ever going 

on. She knew there was something to tell, 
something of which M. Yarbarriere was 
thoroughly cognisant, and about which noth- 
ing could ever induce him to open his lips. 

If it was not “ your son is living,’” she 
cared not what else it might be, and t/iai — 
could it ? — no, it could not be. A slight hec- 
tic touched each thin cheek, otherwise she 
looked as usual. But as she gazed dreamily 
over the fender, with clouded eyes, her tem- 
ples were throbbing and she felt sometimes 
quite wild, and ready to start to her feet and 
adjure that awful whist-player to disclose all 
he knew about her dead boy. 

Beatrix was that evening seated near the 
fireplace, and Drayton making himself agree- 
able, with as small trouble "^as possible to 
himself. Drayton! Well, he was rather 
amusing — cleverish — well enough upon those 
subjects which are generally supposed to in- 
terest young ladies ; and, with an affectation 
of not caring, really exerting himself to be 
entertaining. Did he succeed ? If you were 
to judge by her animated looks and tones, 
you would have said very decidedly. Dray- 
ton’s self-love was in a state of comfort, even 
of luxury, that evening. But was there any- 
thing in the triumph ? 

A pale face, at the farther end of the room, 
with a pair of large, dark, romantic eyes, a 
face that had grown melancholy of late, she 
saw every moment, though she had not once 
looked in that direction all the evening. 

As Drayton saw her smiles at his sallies, 
with bright eyes and heightened color, lean- 
ing back in her cushioned chair, and looking 
under her long lashes into the empty palm 
of her pretty hand, he could not see that 
little portrait — painted on air with the colors 
of memory — that lay there like a locket ; — 
neither his nor any other eyes, but hers alone. 

Guy Strangways was at the farther end of 
the room, where were congregated Lady 
Blunket and her charming daughter, and 
that pretty Mrs. Maberly of whom we have 
spoken ; and little Linnett, mounted strad- 
dle-wise on his chair, leaning with his elbows 
on the back, and his chin on his knuckles, 
helped to entertain them with his inexhaus- 
tible agreeabilities. Guy Strangways had in- 
deed very little cast upon him, for Linnett 
was garrulous and cheerful, and reinforced 
besides by help from other cheery spirits. 

Here was Guy Strangways undergoing the 
isolation to whieh he had condemned him- 
self ; and over there, engrossed by Drayton, 
the lady whose peer he had never seen. Had 
she missed him ? He saw no sign. Not once 
even casually had she looked in his direc- 
tion ; and how often, though she could not 
know it, had his eyes wandered toward her ! 
Dull to him was the hour without her, and 
she was engrossed by another, who, selfish 
and shallow, was merely amusing himself 
and pleasing his vanity. 

How is it that people in love see so well 
without ej^es ? Beatrix saw, without a glance, 
exactly where Guy Strangways was. She 


was piqued and proud, and chose perhaps to 
show him how little he was missed. It was 
his presence, though he suspected it so little, 
that sustained that animation which he 
resented ; and hadA^ left the room, Drayton 
would have found, all at once, that she was 
tired. 

Next day was genial and warm, one of 
those days that bygone summer sometimes 
gives us back from the past to the wintry 
close of autumn, as in an old face that we 
love we sometimes see a look, transitory and 
how pathetic, of the youth we remember. 
Such days, howsoever pleasant, come touched 
with the melancholy of a souvenir. And 
perhaps ‘the slanting amber light nowhere 
touched two figures more in harmony with 
its tone than those who now sat side by side 
on the rustic seat, under the two beech trees at 
the farther end of the pleasure ground of 
Marlowe. 

Old Lady Alice, with her cushions disposed 
about her, and her cloaks and shawls, had 
one arm of the seat; and the Bishop, gait- 
ered and prudently buttoned up in a surtout 
of the finest black cloth, and with that gro- 
tesque (bequeathed of course by the Apostles) 
shovel-hat upon his silvery head, leaned back 
upon the other, and, with his dapper leg 
crossed, and showing the neat sole of his shoe 
to Lady Alice, stroked and patted, after his 
wont, the side of his calf. 

“ Upwards of three-and-thirty years,” said 
the Bishop. 

“ Yes, about that — about three-and-thirty 
years ; and what did you think of him ? A 
very bad man, I’m sure.” 

Madaniy de mortms. We have a saying, 

‘ concerning the dead, nothing but good.’ ” 

“ Nothing but truthy say I,” answered Lady 
Alice. “ Praise can do them no good, and 
falsehood will do us a great deal of harm.” 

“ You put the point strongly. Lady Alice ; 
but when it is said, ‘ nothing but good,’ we 
mean, of course, nothing but the good we 
may truly speak of them.” 

“ And that, as you know, my lord, in his 
case was not much. You were with him to 
the moment of his death — nearly a week, 
was it not?” 

“ Three days precisely.” 

“ Did he know from the first he w^as 
dying ?” inquired Lady Alice. 

“ He was not aware that his situation w^as 
desperate until the end of the second day. 
Noi' was it ; but he knew he was in danger, 
and was very much agitated, poor man ; 
very anxious to live and lead a better life.” 

“ And you prayed with him ?” 

“ Yes, yes ; he was very much agitated, 
though; and it was not easy to fix his 
thoughts, poor Sir Harry ! It was very sad. 
He held my hand in his — my hand — all the 
time I sat by the bed, saying, ‘Don’t yon 
think I’ll get over it ? — I feel that I shall— 

I feel quite safe while I hold your hand.’ I 
never felt a hand tremble as his did.” 

“ You prayed for him, and read with 
him?” said Lady Alice. “And you acted, 
beside, as his confessor, did not you, and 
heard some revelation he had to make ?” 


78 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“You forget, my dear Lady Alice, that 
the ottice of confessor is unknown to the 
Church. It is not according to our theory 
to extract a specific declaration of particu- 
lar sins.” 

“ H’m ! I remember they told me that you 
refused at school to read the Absolution to 
the boys of , your house until they had made 
confession and pointed out an ofiender they 
were concealing.” 

The Bishop hemmed and slightly colored. 
It might have amused an indifferent auditor 
to see that eminent and ancient divine taken 
to task, and made even to look a little foolish, 
by this old woman, and pushed into a corner, 
as a wild young curate might be by him on 
a question of church doctrine. 

“ Why, as to that, the fact may be so ; but 
it was under very special circumstances, 
Lady Alice. The Church refuses even the 
Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper to an in- 
tending communicant who is known to be 
living in wilful sin ; and here was a wilful 
concealment of a grave offence, to which all 
had thus made themselves, and were con- 
tinuing to make themselves, accessory. It 
is, I allow, a doubtful question, and I do 
not say I should be prepared to adopt that 
measure now. The great Martin Luther 
has spoken well and luminously on the fal- 
lacy of taking his convictions at any one 
period of his life as the measure of his doc- 
trine at a later one. The grain of mustard- 
seed, the law of perpetual expansion and 
development, applies to faith as well as to 
motive and action, to the Christian as a 
spiritual individual as well as to the Church 
as an aggregate.” 

This apology for his faith did the Right 
Reverend the Lord Bishop of Queen’s Copely 
urge in his citation before old Lady Alice 
Redcliffe, whom one would have thought 
he might have afforded to despise in a 
Christian way ; but for wise purposes the 
instincts of self defence and self-esteem, and 
a jealousy of even our smallest neighbor’s 
opinion, is so deeply implanted, that we are 
ready to say a good word for ourselves to 
any one who misconceives the perfect wisdom 
of our words, or the equally perfect purity of 
our motives. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 

LADY ALICE AND VARB ABIIIEIIE TETE TETE 
IN THE LIBRARY. 

“ Well, he told you something, did not 
he ?” persisted Lady Alice. 

“ In the sense of a distinct disclosure, 
nothing,” said the Bishop, looking demurely 
over his horizontal leg on the neatly- shorn 
grass. “ He did speak to me upon subjects 
— his -wishes, and I have no doubt he in- 
tended to have been much more explicit. In 
fact, he intimated as much ; but he was over- 
taken by death — unable to speak when I saw 
him next morning.” 

“ He spoke to you, I know, about pulling 
down or blowing up that green chamber,” 
said Lad}^ Alice, whose recollections grew a 


little violent in proportion to the Bishop’s 
reserve and her own impatience. 

“ He did not suggest quite such strong 
measures, but he did regret that it had ever 
been built, and made me promise to urge 
upon his son, as you once before mentioned 
you were aware, so soon as he should come 
of age, to shut it up.” 

“ And you did urge him ?” 

“ Certainly, Lady Alice,” said the Bishop, 
with dignity. “ I viewed it in the light of a 
duty, and a very sacred one, to do so.” 

“ He told you the reasop, then ?” inquired 
Lady Alice. 

“ He gave me no reason on earth for his 
wish; perhaps, had he been spared for 
another day, he would have done so ; but 
he expressed himself strongly indeed, with 
a kind of horror, and spoke of the Italian 
who built, and his father who ordered it, in 
terms of strong disapprobation, and*wished 
frequently it had never been erected. Per- 
haps you would like to take a little turn. 
How very pretty the flowers still are !” 

“Very. No, ‘thank 3^011, I’ll sit a little. 
And there was something more. I know 
perfectly there was, my lord ; what was it, 
pray ?” answered the old lady. 

“ It was merely something that I took 
charge of,” said the Bishop, cautiously. 

“ You need not be so reserved with me, my 
lord ; I’m not, as 3^ou very well know, a talk- 
ing old woman, by any means. I know some- 
thing of the matter already, and have never 
talked about it ; and as the late Lady Mar- 
lowe was my poor daughter by marriage, 
you may talk to me, I should hope, a little 
more freely, than to a total stranger.” 

The Bishop, I fancy, thought there was 
something in this appeal, and was, perhaps, 
amused at the persistency of women, for he 
smiled sadly for a second or two on his 
gaiter, and he said, looking before him with 
his head a little on one side — 

“ You give me credit, my dear Lady Alice, 
for a great deal more reserve than I have, at 
least on this occasion, exercised. I have 
very little to disclose, and I am not forbidden 
by any promise, implied or direct, to tell 3^011 
the very little I know.” 

He paused. 

“ Well, my lord, 'pray go on,” insisted Lady 
Alice. 

“Yes, on the whole,’’ said the Bishop, 
thoughtfully, “ I prefer telling you. In the 
room in which he died, in this house, there 
is, or was, a sort of lock-up place.” 

“ That was the room in which Jekyl now 
sleeps,” interrupted Lady Alice. 

“ I am not aware.”. 

“The room at the extreme back of the 
house. You go through a long passage on 
the same level as the hall, and then, at the 
head of the far back-stair, into a small room 
on your left, and through that into the bed- 
room, I mean. It was there, I know, his 
coffin lay, for I saw him in it.” 

“ As well as I recollect, that must have 
been the room. I know it lay as you de- 
scribe. He gave me some keys that were 
placed with his purse under his pillow, and 


GUY DEVEBELL. 


79 


directed me to open the press, and take out 
a box, resembling a small oak plate-chest, 
which I did, and, by his direction, having 
unlocked it, I took out a very little trunk- 
shaped box, covered with stamped red 
leather, and he took it from me, and the keys, 
and that time said no more.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ In the evening, when I returned, he said 
he had been thinking about it, and wished to 
place it and the key in my care, as^his boy 
was not of age, and it contained something, 
the value of which, as I understood, might 
be overlooked, and the box mislaid. His 
direction to me was to give it to his son, the 
present Sir Jekyl, on his coming of age, and 
to tell him from him that he was to do what 
was right with it. I know those were his 
words, for he was exhausted, and not speaking 
very distinctly ; and I repeated them care- 
fully fftter him, and as he said, ‘ correctly 
after a short time he added, ‘ I think I shall 
tell you more about it to-morrow but, as I 
told you, he was unable to speak next morn- 
ing.” 

‘"And what did that red box contain?” 
asked Lady Alice. 

“ I can’t tell. I never unlocked it. I tied 
it round with a red tape and sealed it, and so 
it remained.” 

“ Then, Jekyl got it when he came of age ?” 

“-I had him, about that time, at my house. 
He examined the box, and, when he had sat- 
isfied himself as to its contents, he secured it 
again with his own seal, and requested me 
to keep it for him for some short time longer.” 

“ Have you got it still in your possession ?” 

“No. I thought it best to insist at last on 
his taking it into his own keeping. I’ve 
brought it with me here — and I gave it to 
him on the day of my arrival.” 

“ Very heavy, was it ?” 

“ On the contrary, very light.” 

“ H’m ! Thank you, my lord ; it is very 
good of you to converse so long with an old 
Tvoman such as I.” 

“ On the contrary. Lady Alice, I am much 
obliged to you. The fact is, I believe it is 
better to have mentioned these circumstan- 
ces. It may, perhaps, prove important that 
some member of the family should know 
exactly what took place between me and the 
late Sir Harry Marlowe during his last ill- 
ness. You now know everything. I have 
reminded him, as I thought it right, of the 
earnest injunction of his father, first with 
respect to that room, the green chamber ; 
and he tells me that he means to comply 
with it when his party shall have broken up. 
And about the other matter, the small box, 
I mentioned that he should do what is right 
with it. He asked me if I had seen what the 
box contained ; and on my saying no he added 
that he could not tell what his father meant 
'by telling him to do what was right with it 
—in fact, that he could do nothing with it.” 

“ Quite an Italian evening ?” exclaimed the 
Bishop, after a pause, rising, and offering his 
arm to Lady Alice. 

And so their conference ended. 

Next day, contrary to her secluded custom. 


and for the first time. Lady Alice glided 
feebly into the new library of Marlowe, of 
which all the guests were free. 

Quite empty, except of that silent com- 
pany in Russia leather and gold, in vellum, 
and other fine suits ; all so unobtrusive and 
quiet ; all so obsequiously at her service ; all 
ready to speak their best, their brightest, and 
wisest thoughts, or to be silent and neglected, 
and yet never affronted ; always alert to 
serve and speak, or lie quiet. 

Quite deserted ! No, not quite. There, 
more than half hidden by that projection and 
carved oak pilaster, sate Monsieur Varbar- 
riere, in an easy chair and a pair of gold 
spectacles, reading easily his vellum quarto. 

“ Pretty room !” exclaimed Lady Alice in 
soliloquy, so soon as sne had detected the 
corpulent and grave student. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere laid down his book 
with a look of weariness, and seeing Lady 
Alice, smiled benignly, and rose and bowed, 
and his sonorous bass tones greeted her 
courteously from the nook in which he stood 
framed in oak, like a portrait of a rich and 
mysterious burgomaster. 

“ What a pretty room !” repeated the old 
lady ; “ I believe we are tete-a-tete''* 

“ Quite so ; I have been totally alone ; a 
most agreeable surprise. Lady Alice. Books 
are very good company ; but even the best 
won’t do always ; and I was beginning to 
weary of mine.” 

M. Yarbarriere spoke French, so did Lady 
Alice; in fact, for that gentlemen’s conve- 
nience, all conversations with him in that 
house were conducted in the same courtly 
language. 

Lady Alice looked round the room to sat- 
isfy herself that they were really alone ; and 
having made her commendatory criticisms 
on the apartment once more, 

“ Yery x^retty,” echoed Monsieur Yarbar- 
riere ; “ I admire the oak, especially in a 
library, it is so solemn and contemplative. 
The Bishop was here to-day, and admired 
the room very much. An agreeable and 
good man the Bishop appears to be.” 

“ Yes ; a good man ; an excellent man. I 
had a very interesting conversation with him 
yesterday. I may as well tell you. Monsieur 
Yarbarriere — I know I may rely upon you — 

I have not come to my time of life without 
knowing i3retty well, by a kind of instinct, ‘ 
whom I may trust ; and I well know how 
you sympathise with me about my lost son.” 

“ Profoundly, madame and Monsieur 
Yarbarriere, with his broad and brown hand 
on his breast, bowed slow'ly and very deep. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 

M. YARBARRIERE ORDERS HIS WINGS. 

In her own way, with interjections, and 
commentary and occasional pauses for the 
sake of respiration, old Lady Alice related 
the substance of what the Bishop had com- 
municated to her. 

“ And what do you suppose, Monsieur 


80 


GUY DEVERELL. 


Yarbarriere, to have been the contents of 
that red leather box ?” asked Lady Alice. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere smiled mysteriously 
and nodded. 

“ I fancy, Lady Alice, I have the honor to 
have arrived at" precisely, the same conclu- 
sion with yourself,” said he. 

“ Well, I dare say. You see now what is 
involved. You understand now why I 
should be, for his own sake, more than ever 
grieved that my boy is gone,” she said, trem- 
bling very much. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere bowed profoundly. 

“ And why it is, sir, that I do insist on 
your explaining your broken phrase of the 
other evening.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere in his deep oak 
frame stood up tall, portly, and erect. A 
narrow window, with stained heraldic embla- 
zonry, was partly behind him, and the light 
from above fell askance on one side of his mas- 
sive countenance, throwing such dark, down- 
ward bars of shadow on his face, that Lady 
Alice could not tell whether he was scowling 
or smiling, or whether the effect was an illu* 
sion. 

“ What phrase, pray, does your ladyship al- 
lude to he inquired. 

“ You spoke of my boy — my poor Guy — 
as if you knew more of him thamyou cared 
to speak — as if you were on the point of dis- 
closing, and suddenly recollected yourself,” 
replied Lady Alice. 

“ You mean when I had the honor to con- 
verse with you the night before lastr in the 
drawing room,’^ said he, a little brusquely, 
observing that the old lady was becoming 
vehemently excited. 

“ Yes ; when you left me under the impres- 
sion that you thought my son still living,” half 
screamed Lady Alice, like a w^oman in a fury. 

“ Bah !” thundered the sneering diapason 
of Monsieur Yarbarriere, whose good man- 
ners totall}^ forsook him in his angry impa- 
tience, and his broad foot on the floor en- 
forced his emphasis with a stamp. 

“ What do you mean, you foreign mas- 
querader, whom nobody knows? What can 
it be ? Sir, you have half distracted me. 
I’ve heard of people getting into houses — 
I’ve heard of magicians — I’ve heard of the 
devil — I have heard of charlatans, sir. Ed 
like to know what right, if you know no-.- 
thing of my dear son, you have to torture 
me with doubts” 

“ Doubts !” repeated Yarbarriere, if less 
angrily, even more contemptuously. “ Pish !” 

“ You may pish, sir, or any rudeness you 
please ; but depend upon this, if you do know 
anything, of any kind, about my darling son. 
I’ll have it from you if there be either laws 
or men in England,” shrieked Lady Alice. 

Yarbarriere all at once subsided, and 
looked hesitatingly. In tones comparatively 
quiet, but still a little ruffled, he said — 

‘‘ I’ve been, I fear, very rude ; everyone 
that’s angry is. I think you are right. I 
ought never to have approached the subject 
of your domestic sorrow. It was not my do- 
ing, madame'f it was you w'ho insisted on 
drawing me to it.” 


“ You told me that you haa seen my son, 
and knew Mr. Strangways intimately.” 

“I did notr cried Yarbarriere sternly, 
with his head throwm back ; and he and 
Lady Alice fora second or tw^o were silent. 
“ That is, I beg pardon, you misapprehended 
me. I’m sure I never could have said I had 
seen your son, Mr. Guy Deverell, or that I 
had a particularly intimate acquintance with 
Mr. Strangways.” 

“ It wo*n’t do,” burst forth Lady Alice again ; 
“ I’ll not be fooled — I W' on’t be fooled, sir.” 

“ Pray, then, pause for one moment before 
you have excited an alarm in the house, and 
possibly decide me on taking my leave for 
ever,” said Yarbarrierre, in a low but very 
stern tone. “ Whatever I may be — charla- 
tan, conjurer, devil — if you but knew the 
truth, you would acknowledge yourself pro- 
foundly and everlastingly indebted to me. 
It is quite true that I am in possessk)n of 
facts of which you had not even a suspicion ; 
it is true that the affairs of those nearest to 
you in blood have occupied my profoundest 
thoughts and most affectionate care. I be- 
lieve, if you will but exercise the self-com- 
mand of which I have no doubt you are per- 
fectly capable, for a very few days, I shall 
have so matured my plans as to render their 
defeat impracticable. On the other hand, if 
you give me any trouble, or induce the 
slightest suspicion anywhere that' I have 
taken an interest of the kind I describe, I 
shall quit England, and you shall go down to 
your grave in darkness, and with the convic- 
tion, moreover, that you have blasted the 
hopes for which 5’'ou ought to have sacrificed 
not your momentary curiosity only, but your 
unhappy life.” 

Lady Alice was awed by the countenance 
and tones of this strange man, who assumed 
an authority over her, on this occasion, 
which neither of her deceased lords had ever 
\ entured to assert in theiulife times. 

Her fearless spirit would not, however, suc- 
cumb, but looked out through the cold win- 
dows of her deep-set eyes into the fiery gaze 
of her master, as she felt him, daringly as be- 
fore. 

After a short pause, she said — 

“ You would have acted more wisely. Mon- 
sieur Yarbarriere, had you spoken to me^ on 
other occasions as frankly as you have just 
now done.” 

“ Possibly, madame.” 

“ Certainly, monsieur.” 

M. Yarbarriere bowed. 

“ Certainly, sir. But having at length 
heard so much, I am willing to concede what 
you say. I trust the delay may not be long. 

I think you ought to tell me soon. I sup- 
pose we had better talk no more in the in- 
terim,” she added, suddenly turning as she 
approached the threshold of the room, and 
recovering something of her lofty tone — 
“ upon that, to me, terrible subject.” 

''Much better, madame,” acquiesced M. 
Yarbarriere. 

“ And we meet otherwise as before,” said 
the old lady, with a disdainful condescension 
and a slight bow. 


GUY DEYERELL. 


81 


“ I thank you, madanie, for that favor,” re- 
plied M. Varbarriere, reverentially, ap- 
proaching the door, which, as she drew near 
to withdraw, he opened for her with a bow, 
and they parted. 

“ I hope she’ll be quiet, that old grey wild- 
cat. I must get a note from her to Madame 
Gwynn. The case grows stronger; a little 
more and it will be irresistible, if only that 
stupid and ill-tempered old woman can be 
got to govern herself for a few da3"s.” 

That evening, in the drawing-room. Mon- 
sieur Yarbarriere was many degrees more 
respectful than ever to that old grey wild-cat, 
at whom that morning he had roared in a 
way so utterly ungentlemanlike and ferocious. 

Reople at a distance might have almost 
fancied a sexagenarian caricature of a love- 
scene. There had plainly been the lovers’ 
quarrel. The lady carried her head a little 
high, threw sidelong glances on the carpet, 
had a little pink flush in her cheeks, and 
spoke little ; listened, but smiled not ; while 
the gentleman sat as close as he dare, and 
spoke earnestly and low. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was, in fact, making 
the most of his time, and recovering all he 
could of his milder influence over Lady 
Alice, and did persuade and soften ; and at 
length he secured a promise of the note he 
wanted to Mrs. Gw^mn, pledging his honor 
that she would thoroughly approve the 
object of it, so soon as he was at liberty to 
disclose it. 

That night taking leave of Sir Jekyl, 
Monsieur Yarbarriere said- 

“ You’ve been so good as to wish me to 
prolong my visit, which has been to me so 
charming and so interesting. I have ven- 
tured, therefore, to enable myself to do so, by 
arranging an absence of two days, which I 
mean to devote to business which will not 
bear postponement.” 

“ Yery sorry to lose you, even for the time 
you say ; but you must leave your nephew, 
Mr. Strangways, as a hostage in our hands 
to secure your return.” 

“ He shall remain, as you are so good as 
to desire it, to enjoy himself. As for me, I 
need no tie to hold me to my engagement, 
and only regret every minute stolen for other 
objects from my visit.” 

There was some truth in these compli- 
mentary speeches. Sir Jekyl was now quite 
at ease as to the character of his guests, 
whom he had at first connected with an often 
threatened attack, which he profoundly 
dreaded, however lightly he might talk of its. 
chances of success. The host, on the whole, 
liked his guests, and really wished their stay 
prolonged ; and Monsieur Yarbarriere, who 
silently observed many things of which he 
did not speak, was, perhaps, just now partic- 
ularly interested in his private perusal of 
that little romance which was to be read 
only at Marlowe Manor. 

“ I see, Guy, you have turned over a new 
leaf— no fooling now — you must hot relapse, 
mind. I shall be away for two days. If 
longer, address me at Slowton. May I rely 
on your good sense and resolution — knowina: 

6 


what are our probable relations with this 
family — to continue to exercise the same 
caution as I have observed in your conduct, 
with much satisfaction, for the last twm 
evenings? Well, I suppose I may. If you 
cannot trust jmurself— fly. Get away— 
pack. You may follow me to Slowton, 
make what excuse you please ; but don’t 
loiter here. Good-night.” 

Such was the fare w^ ell spoken by Yarbar 
riere to his nephew, as he nodded his good- 
night on the threshold of their dressing- 
room. 

In the morning Monsieur Yarbarriere’s 
place knew him no more at the breakfast- 
table. With his valise, despatch-box, and 
desk, he had glided away, in the frosty sun- 
light, in a Marlowe post-chaise, to the 
“ Plough Inn,” on the Old London Road, 
where, as w^e know, he had once sojourned 
before. It made a slight roundabout iS the 
point to which his business really invited 
his route ; and as he dismissed his vehicle 
here, I presume it was done with a view to 
mystify possible inquirers. 

At the, “ Plough Inn” he was received 
vflth an awful bustle and reverence. The 
fame of the consideration with which he 
was entertained at Marlowe had reached that 
modest hostelry, and Monsieur Yarbarriere 
looked larger, grander, more solemn in its 
modest hall, than ever ; his valise was hand- 
led with respect, and lifted in like an invalid, 
not hauled and trundled like a prisoner ; and 
the desk and dispatch-box, as the more im- 
mediate attendants on his person, were eyed 
with the respect which such a confidence 
could not fail to inspire. 

So Monsieur Yarbarriere, having had his 
appetising drive through a bright country 
and keen air, ate his breakfast very comfort- 
ably ; and when that meal was over, ordered 
a “ fly,” in which he proceeded to Wardlock, 
and pulled up at the hall-door of Lady Alice’s 
reserved-looking, but comfortable old red- 
brick mansion. 


CHAPTER XL. 

MONSIEUK VAUBARKIERE TALKS WITH 
DONICA GWYNT^. 

The footman opened the door in deshabille 
and unshorn, with a countenance that im- 
plied his sense of the impertinence of this 
disturbance of his gentlemanlike retirement. 
There was, however, that in the countenance 
of Monsieur Yarbarriere, as well as the in- 
tangible but potent “ aura” emitted by wealth, 
which surrounded him — an influence which 
everybody feels and no one can well define, 
which circumambiates a rich person and 
makes it felt, nobody knows how, that he is 
wealthy— that brought the flimkj^ to him- 
self ; and adjusting his soiled nrcktie hastily 
with one hand, he ran down to the heavy 
but commanding countenance that loomed 
on his from the window of the vehicle. 

“This is Wardlock?” demanded the vis- 
itor. 


82 


GUY DEYERELL. 


“ Wardlock Manor ? — yes, sir,” answered 
the servant. 

“I’ve a note from Lady Alice RedclifFe, 
and a few words to Mrs. Gwynn the house- 
keeper. She’s at home ?” 

“ Mrs. Gwynn ? — yes, sir.” 

“ Open the door, please,” said Monsieur 
Yarbarriere, who was now speaking good 
frank English with wonderful fluency, con- 
sidering his marked preference for the French 
tongue elsewhere. 

Tlie door flew open at the touch of the 
footman; and Monsieur Yarbarriere entered 
the staid mansion, and was shown by the 
servant into the wainscoted parlor in which 
Lady Alice had taken leave of the g,ncient 
retainer whom he was about to confer with. 

When Mrs. Gwynn, with that mixture of 
curiosity and apprehension which an unex- 
pected visit is calculated to inspire, entered 
the room, very erect and natty, she saw a 
large round-shouldered stranger, standing 
with his back toward her, arrayed in black, 
at the window, with his grotesque high- 
crowned hat on. 

Turning about he removed this with a 
slight bow and a grave smile, and with his 
sonorous foreign accent inquired — 

“ Mrs. Gwynn, I suppose ?” 

“ Yes, sir, that is my name, if you please.” 

“ A note, Mrs. Gwynn, from Lady Alice 
Redclifle.” 

And as he placed it in the thin and rather 
lady-like fingers of the housekeeper, his eyes 
rested steadily on her features, as might those 
of a process-server, whose business it might 
be hereafter to identify her. 

Mrs. Gwynn read the note, which was 
simply an expression of her mistress’s wish 
that she should answer explicitly whatever 
questions the gentleman, M. Yarbarriere, 
who would hand it to her, and who was 
moreover, a warm friend of the family, might 
put to her. 

Wien Mrs. Gwynn, with the help of her 
spectacles, had spelled through this letter, 
she in turn looked searchingly at Monsieur 
Yarbarriere, and began to wonder unplea- 
santly what line his examination might take. 

“ Will you, Mrs. Gwynn, allow me the 
right to sit down, by yourself taking a chair ?” 
said Monsieur Yarbarriere, very politely, 
smiling darkly, and waving his hand toward 
a seat. 

“I’m very well as I am, I thank you, sir,” 
replied Gwynn, who did not very much like 
the gentleman’s looks, and thought him 
rather like a great roguish Jew pedlar whom 
she had seen long ago at the fair of Marlowe. 

“Nay, but pray sit down— I can’t while 
you stand — and our conversation may last 
some time — pray do.” 

“ I can talk as well, sir, one way as t’other,” 
replied she, while at the same time, with a 
sort of fidgeted impatience, she did sit down 
and fold her hands in her lap. 

“We have all, Mrs. Gwynn, a very high 
opinion of you ; I mean Lady Alice and the 
friends of her family, among whom I reckon 
myself.” 

“ It’s only of late as I came to my present 


misses, you’re aware, sir, ’aving been, from, 

I may say, my childhood in the Marlowe 
family.” 

“I know — the Marlowe family — it’s all 
one, in fact ; but I may say, Mrs. Gwynn, 
that short, comparatively, as has been 3mnr 
time with Lady Alice, you are spoken of 
with more respect and liking by that branch 
of the family than by Sir Jekyl.” 

“ I’ve done nothing to disoblege Sir Jekyl, 
as Lady Alice knows. Will you be so kind, 
sir, as to say what you want of me, having 
business to attend to ap-stairs?” 

“ Certainly, it is only a trifle or two.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere cleared his voice. 

“ Having ascertained all about that secret 
door that opens into the green chamber at 
Marlowe, we would be obliged to you to let 
us know at what time, to your knowledge, 
it was first used.” 

His large full eyes, from under his pro- 
jecting brows, stared full upon her shrinking 
gaze as he asked this question in tones deep 
and firm, but otherwise as civil as he could 
employ. 

It was vain for Mrs. Gwynn to attempt to 
to conceal her extreme agitation. Her coun- 
tenance showed it — she tried to speak and 
failed ; and cleared her throat, and broke 
down again. 

“ Perhaps you’d like some water,” said 
Yarbarriere, rising and approaching the bell. 

“ No,” said Donica Gwynn, rising suddenly 
and getting before him. “ Let be.” 

He saw that she wished to escape observa- 
tion. 

“ As you please, Mrs. Gwynn — sit down 
again — I shan’t without your leave — and re- 
cover a little.” ^ 

“ There’s nothing wrong with me, sir,” re- 
plied Donica, now in possession of her voice, 
very angrily ; “ there’s nothing to cause it.” 

“"Well, Mrs. Gwynn, it’s quite excusable. I 
know all about it.” 

“ What are you, a builder or a hartist ?” 

“ Nothing of the kind ; I’m a gentleman 
without a profession, Mrs. Gwynn, and one 
who will not permit you to be compromised ; 
one who will protect you from the slightest 
suspicion of anything unpleasant.” 

“ I don’t know what you’re a-driving at,” 
said Mrs. Gwynn, still as white as death, and 
glancing furiously. 

“ Come, Mrs. Gw3mn, you’re a sensible 
woman. How do perfectly. You have 
maintained a respectable character.” 

“ Yes, sir !” said Donica Gwynn, and sud- 
denly burst into a paroxysm of hysterical 
tears. 

“ Listen to me ; you have maintained a 
respectable character, I know it ; nothing 
whatever to injure that character shall ever 
fall from my lips ; no human being — but two 
or three just as much interested in concealing 
all about it as you or I — shall ever know 
anything about it; and Sir Jekyl Marlowe 
has consented to take it down, so soon as the i 
party at present at Marlowe shall have dis- 
persed.” ! 

“ Lady Alice — I’ll never like to see her j 
again,” sobbed Donica. ' 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Lady Alice has no more suspicion of the 
existence of that door than the Pope of 
Rome has ; and what is more, never shall. 
You may rely upon me to observe the most 
absolute silence and secrecy — nay, more, if 
necessary for the object of concealment — so 
to mislead and mystify people, that they can 
never so much as surmise the truth, provided 
— pray observe m.Q— provided you treat me 
with the most absolute candor'. You must 
not practice the least reserve or concealment. 
On tracing the slightest shadow of either in 
your communication with me, I hold myself 
free to deal with the facts in my possession, 
precisely as may seem best to myself. You 
understand 

“Not Lady Alice, nor none of the ser- 
vants, nor — nor a creature living, please.” 

Depend on me,” said Varbarriere. 

‘ “ Well, sure I may ; a gentleman would not 
break his word with such as me,” said Don- 
ica, imploringly. 

“We can’t spend the whole day repeating 
the same thing over and over,” said Var- 
barriere, rather grimly ; “I’ve said my''say— 
I know everything that concerns you about 
it, without your opening your lips upon the 
subject. You occupied that room for two 
years and a half during Sir Harry’s lifetime 
— you see I know it all. There! you are 
perfectly safe, I need not have made you 
any promise, but I do — perfectly safe with 
me — and the room shall vanish this winter, 
and no one but ourselves know anything 
of that door — do you understand 
ded^^ 

“ Yes, sir, please — and what do you wish 
to know more from me ? I don’t know, I’m 
sure, why I should be such a fool as to take 
on so about it, as if I could help it, or was 
ever a bit the worse of it myself. There’s 
been many a one has slep’ in that room and 
never so much as knowd there was a door 
but that they came in by.” 

“ To be sure ; so, tell me, do you recollect 
Mr. Deverell’s losing a paper in that room ?” 

“ Well, I do mind the time he said he lost 
it there, but I know no more than the child 
unborn.” 

“ Did Sir Harry never tell you ?” 

“ They said a deal o’ bad o’ Sir Harry, and 
them that should a’ stood up for him never 
said a good word for him. Poor old crea- 
ture !— -I doubt it he had pluck to do it. I 
don’t think he had, poor fellow ?” 

“Did he ever tell you he had done it? 
Come, remember your promise.” 

“ No, upon my soul — never.” 

“ Do you think he took it ?” 

Their eyes met steadily. 

“ Yes, I do,” she said with a slight defiant 
frown. 

“ And why do you think so ?” 

“Because, shortly after the row began 
about that paper, he talked with me, and said 
there was something a-troubling of him, and 
he wished me to go and live in a farm-house 
at Applehythe, and keep summat he wanted 
kep safe, as there was no one in all England 
so true as me— poor old fellow! He never 
told me, and I never asked. But I laid it 


83 

down in my own mind it was the paper Mr. 
Deverell lost, that’s all.” 

“ Did he ever show you that paper ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did he tell you where it was ?” 

“ He never said he had it.” - 

“ Did he show you where that thing was 
which he wanted you to take charge of?” 

“ Yes, in the press nigh his bed’s head.” 

“ Did he open the press ?” 

“ Ay.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ He showed me a sort of box, and he said 
that was all.” 

^ “ A little trunk of stamped red leather — 
was that like it ?” 

“ That was just it.” 

“ Did he afterwards give it into anybody’s 
charge ?” 

“ I know no more about it. I saw it there, 
that’s all. I saw it once, and never before 
nor since.” 

“ Is there more than one secret door into 
that room ?” pursued Yarbaniere. 

“ More than one ; no, never as I heard or 
thought.” 

“ Where is the door placed with which 
you are acquainted ?” 

“ Why ? Don’t you know ?” 

“ Suppose I know of two. We have dis- 
covered a second. Which is the one you 
saw used? ComeP'^ 

Parenthetically it is to be observe^ that 
no such discovery had been made, and Var- 
barriere was merely fisliing for information 
without disclosing his ignorance. 

“ In the recess at the right of the bed’s 
head.” 

“ Yes; and how do you open it? I meani 
from the green chamber ?” 

“ I never knowd any way how to open it 
— it’s from t’other side. There’s a way to 
bolt it, though.” 

“ Ay ? How’s that ?” 

“ There’s an ornament of scrowl-work, 
they calls it, bronze-like, as runs down the 
casing of the recess, shaped like letter esses. 
Well, the fourteenth of them, reckoning up 
from the bottom, next the wall, turns round 
with your finger and thumb ; so if any- 
one be in the green chamber, and knows 
the secret, they can stop the door being 
opened.” 

“ I see — thank you. You’ve been through 
the passage leading from Sir Harry’s room 
that was — Sir Jekyl Marlowe’s room at the 
back of the house, to the secret door of the 
green chamber ?” 

“ No, never. I know nothink of that, no 
more nor a child.” 

“ No ?” 

“ No, nothink at all.” 

Varbarriere had here been trying to estab- 
lish another conjecture. 

There was a pause. Varbarriere rumi- 
nating darkly, looked on Donica Gwynn. 
He then closed his pocket-book, in which he 
had inscribed a few notes, and said — 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Gwynn. Should I want 
anything more I’ll call again ; and you had 
better not mention the subject of my visit. 


GUY DEVERELL. 


8i 

Let me see' the pictures — thaL will be the 
excuse — and do you keep your secret, and I’ll 
keep mine.” 

“ No, I thank you, sir,” said Donica, dryly, 
almost fiercely, drawing back from his prof- 
ered douceur. 

“ Tut, tut — pray do.” 

“ No, I thank you.” 

So he looked at the pictures in the different 
rooms, and at some old china and snuff-boxes, 
to give a color to his visit ; and with polite 
speeches and dark smiles, and a general cour- 
tesy that was unctuous, he took his leave of 
Donica Gwynn, whom he left standing in 
the hall with a flushed face and a sore heart. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A STORY OF A MAGICIAN AND A VAMPIRE. 

The pleasant autumn sun touched the 
steep roofs and mullioned windows of Mar- 
lowe Manor pleasantly that morning, turn- 
ing the thinning foliage of its noble timber 
into gold, and bringing all the slopes and 
undulations of its grounds into relief in its 
subdued glory. The influence of the weather 
was felt by the guests assembled in the spa- 
cious breakfast-parlor, and gay and animated 
was the conversation. 

Lady Jane Lennox, that “ superbly hand- 
some creature,” as old Doocey used to term 
her, had relapsed very much into her old 
ways. Beatrix had been pleased when, even 
in her impetuous and uncertain way, that 
proud spirit had seemed to be drawn toward 
her again. But that was past, and that 
unruly nature had broken away once more 
upon her own solitary and wayward courses. 
She cared no more for Beatrix, or, if at all, it 
was plainly not kindly. 

In Lady Jane’s bold and mournful isola- 
tion there was something that interested 
Beatrix, ungracious as her ways often were, 
and she felt sore at the unjust repulse she 
had experienced. But Beatrix was proud, 
and so, though wounded, she did not show 
her pain — not that pain, nor another far 
deeper. 

Between her and Guy Strangways had 
come a coldness unintelligible to her, an 
estrangement which she would have felt like 
an insult, had it not been for his melancholy 
looks and evident loss of spirits. 

There is a very pretty room at Marlowe ; 
it is called {why^ I forget) Lady Mary’s bou- 
doir ; its door opens from the first landing on 
the great stair. An oak floor, partly covered 
with a Turkey carpet, one tall window with 
stone shafts, a high old-fashioned stone chim- 
ney-piece, and furniture perhaps a little in- 
congruous, but pleasant in its incongruity. 
Tapestry in the Teniers style— Dutch village 
festivals, with no end of figures, about half 
life-size, dancing, drinking, making music; 
old boors, and young and fair-haired maidens, 
and wrinkled vraus, and here and there gen- 
tlemen in doublets and plumed hats, and 
ladies, smiling and bare-headed, and fair and 


plump, in great stomachers. These pleasant 
subjects, so life-like, with children, cocks and 
hens, and dogs interspersed, helped with a 
Louis Quatorze suit of pale green, and gold 
chairs cushioned with Utrecht velvet, to give 
to this room its character so mixed, of gaiety 
and solemnity, something very quaint and 
cheery. 

This room had old Lady Alice Redcliffe 
selected for her sitting-room, when she found 
herself unequal to the exertion of meeting 
the other ladies in the drawing-room, and 
hither she had been wont to invite Guy 
Strangways, who would occasionally pass an 
hour here wonderfully pleasantly and happily 
— in fact, as many hours as the old lady 
would have permitted, so long as Beatrix 
had been her companion. 

But with those self-denying resolutions we 
have mentioned came a change. When 
Beatrix was there the young gentleman was 
grave and rather silent, and generally had 
other engagements which at least shortened 
his visit. This was retorted by Beatrix, 
who, a few minutes after the arrival of the 
visitor whom old Lady Alice had begun to 
call her secretary, would, on one pretence or 
another, disappear, and leave the old prin- 
cess and her secretary to the uninterrupted 
enjoyment of each other’s society. 

Now since the night on which Yarbarriere 
in talking with Lady Alice had, as we have 
lieard, suddenly arrested his speech respect- 
ing her son — leaving her in uncertainty how 
it was to have been finished — an uncertainty 
on which her morbid brain reflected a thou- 
sand horrid and impossible shapes, the old 
lady had once more conceived something of 
her early dread of Guy Strangways. It was 
now again subsiding, although last night, 
under the influence of laudanum, in her 
medicated sleep her son had been sitting at 
her bedside, talking incessantly, she could 
not remember what. 

Guy Strangways had just returned from 
the Park for his fishing-rod and angler’s 
gear, when he Avas met in the hall by the 
grave and courteous butler, wflio presented a 
tiny pencilled note from Lady Alice, begging 
him to spare her half an hour in Lady Mary’s 
boudoir. 

Perhaps it was a bore. But habitual cour- 
tesy is something more than “ mouth, honor, 
breath,” Language and thought react upon 
one another marvellously. To restrain its 
expression is in part to restrain the feeling ; 
and thus a well-bred man is not only in 
Avords and demeanor, but inwardly and sin- 
cerely, more gracious and noble than others. 

Hoav oddly things happen sometimes ! 

Exactly as Guy Strangways arrived on the 
lobby, a little gloved hand — it was Beatrix’s 
— was on the door-handle of Lady Mary’s 
boudoir. It was withdrawn, and she stood 
looking for a second or two at the youilg 
gentleman, who had evident!}^ been hi 

the same direction. He, too, pau^ 
with a very low bow, advanced 
door for Miss Marlowe. 

“No, tbank you — I — I think I 
postpone ni}?’ visit to grand mainnic . 


GUY DEVERELL. 


85 


turn. I’m going to the garden, and should 
like to bring her some flowers.” 

“ I’m afraid I have arrived unluckily — she 
would, I know, have been so glad to see 
you,” said Guy Strangways. 

“ Oh, I’ve seen her twice before to-day. 
You were going to make her a little visit 
now.” 

“ I— if you wish it, Miss Marlowe, I’ll defer 
it.” 

“ She would be very little obliged to me. 
I’m sure ; but I must really go,” said Beatrix, 
recollecting on a sudden that there was no 
need of so long a parley. 

“ It would very much relieve the poor sec- 
retary’s labors, and make his little period of 
duty so much happier,” said Guy, forgetting 
his wise resolutions strangely. 

“ I am sure grandmamma would prefer 
seeing her visitors singly — it makes a great 
deal more of them, you know.” 

And with a little smile and such a pretty 
glow in her cheeks, she passed him by. He 
bowed and smiled faintly too, and for a mo- 
ment stood gazing after her into the now 
vacant shadow of the old oak wainscoting, 
as young ISTuma might after his vanished 
Egeria, with an unspoken, burning grief and 
a longing at his heart. 

“ I’m sure she can’t like me— I’m sure she 
t^Mikes me. So much the better — Heaven 
knows I’m glad of it.” 

And with an aching heart he knocked, 
turned the handle, and entered the pretty 
apartment in which Lady Alice, her thin 
shoulders curved, as she held her haifds over 
the fire, was sitting alone. 

She looked at him over her shoulder 
strangely from her hollow eyes, without 
moving or speaking for a time. He bowed 
gravely, and said — 

“ I have this moment received your little 
note. Lady Alice, and have hastened to 
obey.” 

She sat up straight and sighed. 

“ Thanks— I have not been very well — so 
nervous — so very nervous,” she repeated, 
without removing her sad and clouded gaze 
from his face. 

“We all heard with regret that you had 
not been so w^ell,” said he. 

“ Well, we’ll not talk of it — you’re very 
good — I’m glad you’ve come— very nervous, 
and almost wishing myself back at Wardlock 
— where indeed I should have returned, only 
that I should have been wishing myself back 
again before an hour — miserably nervous.” 

And Lady Alice sniffed at her smelling- 
salts, and added — . 

“ And Monsieur Varbarriere gone away on 
business for some days — is not he ?” 

“ Yes — quite uncertain — possibly for two, 
or perhaps three, he said,” answered Guy» 

“ And he’s very — he knows — he knows a 
great deal — I- forget what I was going to say 
— I’m half asleep to-day — no sleep — a very 
bad night.” 

And old Lady Alice yawned drearily into 
the fire. 

“ Beatrix said she’d look in ; but every-one 
forgets— you young people are so selfish.” 


“ Mademoiselle Marlowe was at the door 
as I came in, and said she would go on instead 
to the garden first, and gather some flowers 
for you.” 

“ Oh h’m— very good— well, I can’t talk to- 
day ; suppose you choose a book, Mr. Strang- 
ways, and read a few pages— that is, if you 
are quite at leisure ?” 

“ Perfectly— that is for an hour~unfortu- 
nately I have then an appointment. What 
kind of book shall I take ?” he asked, ap- 
proaching one of the two tall bookstands that 
flanked an oval mirror opposite the fireplace. 

“ Anything, provided it is old.” 

Nearly half an hour passed in discussing 
what to read — the old lady not being in the 
mood that day to pursue the verse readings 
which had employed Guy Strangways hith- 
erto. 

“ This seems a curious old book,” he said, 
after a few minutes. “ Very old French — I 
think upon witchcraft, and full of odd nar- 
ratives.” 

“ That will do very well.” 

“ I had better try to translate it — the lan- 
guage is so antiquated.” 

He leaned the folio on the edge of the 
chimneypiece, and his elbow beside it, sup- 
porting his head on his hand and so read 
aloud to the exigeante old lady, who liked to 
see people employed about her, even though 
little of comfort, amusement, or edification 
resulted from it. 

The narrative which Lady Alice had se- 
lected was entitled thus : — 

“ CONCERNING A REMARKABLE REVENGE 
AFTER SEPULTURE. 

“ In the Province of Normandy, in 
year of grace 1405, there lived a young ^ 
tleman of Styrian descent, possessing es 
in Hungary, but a still more opulent fo; 
in France. His park abutted on that o 
Chevalier de St. Aubrache, who was a 
also young, of ancient lineage, proud 
cess, and though wealthy, by no mea. 
wealthy as his Styrian neighbor. 

“ This disparity in riches excited the v 
of the jealous nobleman, who having 
admitted the passions of envy and hatrei 
his heart, omitted no opportunity to inju 
him. 

“ The Chevalier de St. Aubrache, in fact, 
succeeded so well” 

Just at this point in the tale, Beatrix, with 
her flowers, not expecting to find Guy 
Strangways still in attendance, entered the 
room. 

“You need not go ; come in, dear— you’ve 
brought me some flowers— come in, I say ; 
thank you, Beatrix, dear — they are very 
pretty, and very sweet too. Here is Mr 
Strangways — sit by me, dear — reading a curi- 
ous old tale of witchcraft. Tell her the be- 
ginning, pray.” 

So Strangways told the story over again 
in his best way, aSd then proceeded to read 
as follows : — 

“ The Chevalier de St. Aubrache, in fact, 
succeeded so well, that on a point of law, 
aided by a corrupt judge in the Parliament 


86 


GUY DEVERELL. 


of Rouen, lie took from him a considerable 
portion of his estate, and subsequently so 
managed matters without committing him- 
self, that he lost his life unfairly in a duel, 
which t] ^ Chevalier secretly contrived. 

“Now lere was in the household of the 
gentlemaa so made away with, a certain 
Hungarian, older than he, a grave and politic 
man, and reputed to have studied the art of 
magic deeply. By this man was the corpse 
of the deceased gentleman duly coffined, had 
away to Styria, and, it is said, there buried 
according to certain conditions, with which 
the Hungarian magician, who had vowed a 
terrible revenge, was well acquainted. 

“In the meantime the Chevalier de St. 
Aubrache had espoused a very beautiful 
demoiselle of the noble family of H’Ayen- 
terre. bv whom he had one daughter, so 
as the subject of univer- 
. ;h increased in the heart 

hat affection which it was 
i should cherish for her. 
k time of Candlemas, a 
. fter the death of his mas- 

f 1:. arian magician returned 

npanied by a young gen- 
\ ideed, but otherwise so 

^ ; ■ tleman now so long dead, 

■ ; ■ d been familiar with his 

- d being struck, and in- 

h the likeness. 

V V i: de St. Aubrache was at 
; . ' ‘ or, like the rest ; but well 

t ' ’ oung man whom he, the 

\ bled, had been actually 

' . • , in combat, and having 

V ' ' . )ires, which are among the 

. , . I awful of the manifesta- 

' ! ; ' ne, and not yet rehognis- 

: f.. arian magician, who had 

^ • 'I' guise himself efiectually ; 

; ^ 7ing on letters from the 
' -i with which, under a 
ell as with others from the 

f do in Spain, he had come 
ed him into his house ; 

T ^ . . igician, who resembled a 

. r ' sity, and the fair-seeming 
ablished in the house of 
" f V ' n to practise, by stealth, 

‘ ; ; aw that in the reader’s 

< . read this odd story, which 
. Perhaps conscious of her 
' ■ ’ ' fortable stare, as well as 

le grew obviously discon,- 
' as it seemed, even agitated 

■r Heaven’s sake, will you 
^ ^ re?” said Lady Alice, her 

: • : I fearfully on his face, as 

vv 'V tusly from her chair. 

- ’ ■ ' i, very pale, turned a de- 

' St savage look from her to 

- - : to her again. 

“You are not a Strangway she contin- 
ued. 

He looked steadily at her, as if he were 
going to speak, then dropped his glance sud- 
denly and remained silent. 


“ I say, I know your name is not Strang- 
ways,” said the old lady, in increasing agita- 
tion. 

“ I can tell you nothing about myself,” 
said he again, fixing his great dark eyes, that 
looked almost wild in his pallid face, full 
upon her, with a strange expression of an- 
guish. 

“ In the Almighty’s name, are you Guy 
Deverell ?” she screamed, lifting up her thin 
hands between him and her in her terror. 

The young man returned her gaze, oddly 
with, sbe fancied, a look of baflOled horror in 
his face. It seemed to her like an evil spirit 
detected. 

He recovered, however, for a few seconds, 
something of his usual manner. Instead of 
speaking, he bowed twice very low, and, on 
the point of leaving the room, he suddenly 
arrested his departure, turning aboyt with a 
stamp on the floor ; and walking back to her, 
he said, very gently — 

“Yes, yes, why should I deny it? My 
name is Guy Deverell.” 

And he was gone. 


CHAPTER XLII, 

FAKEWELL. 

“ Oh ! grandmamma, what is it ?” said Bea- 
trix, clasping her thin wrist. 

The old lady, stooping over the chair on 
which she leaned, stared darkly after the 
vanished image, trembling very much. 

“ What is Deverell — why should the name 
be so dreadful — is there anything — oh ! 
grandmamma, is there anythmg very bad ?” 

“ I don’t know — I am confused — did you 
ever see such a face ? My gracious Heaven !” 
muttered Lady Alice. 

“ Oh ! grandmamma, darling, tell me what 
it is, I implore you.” • 

“ Yes, clear, everything ; another time: I 
can’t now. I might do a mischief. I might 
prevent — you must promise me, darling, to 
tell no one. You must not say his name is 
Deverell. You say nothing about it. That 
dreadful, dreadful story !” 

The folio was lying with crumpled leaves, 
back upward, oh the floor, where it had fallen. 

“ There is something plainly fearful in it. 
You think so, grandmamma*; something dis- 
covered ; something going to happen. Send 
after him, grandmamma ; call him back. If 
it is anything you can prevent. I’ll ring.” 

“ Don’t touch the bell,” cried granny, 
sharply, clutching at her hand, “ don’t do it. 
See, Beatrix, you promise me you say noth- 
ing to any one of what you’ve witnessed — 
promise. I’ll tell you all I know when I’m 
better. He’ll come again. I wish he’d come 
again. J’ln sure he will, though I hardly 
think I could bear to see him. I don’t knovp 
what to think.” 

The old lady threw herself back* in her 
chair, not alfectedly at all, but looking so 
awfully haggard and agitated that Beatrix 
was frightened. 

“ Call nobody, there’s a darling ; just open 
the window ; I shall be better.” 


GUY DEVERELL. 


87 


And she heaved some of those long and 
heavy sighs which relieve hysterical oppres- 
sion ; and after a long silence, she said — 

“ It is a long time since I have felt so ill, 
Beatrix. Remember this, darling, my pa- 
pers are in the black cabinet in my bed-room 
at home — 1 mean Wardiock. There is not 
a great deal. My jointure stops, you know ; 
but whatever little there is, is for you, 
darling.” 

“ You’re not to talk of it, granny, darling, 
you’ll be quite well in a minute ; the air is 
doing you good. May I give you a little 
wine?— Well, a little water?” 

“ Thanks, dear ; I am better. Remember 
what I told you, and particularly your prom- 
ise to mention what 3/ ou heard to no one. 
I mean the — the — strange scene with that 
young man. I think I will take a glass of 
wine. I’ll tell you all when I’m better — 
when Monsieur Varbarriere comes back. It 
is important for a time, especially having 
heard what I have, that I should wait a 
little.” 

Granny sipped a little sherry slowly, and 
the tint of life, such as visits the cheek of the 
aged, returned to hers, and she was better. 

“ I’d rather not see him an}^ more. It’s 
all like a dream. I don’t know what to make 
of it,” muttered granny ; and she began audi- 
bly to repeat passages, tremblingly and with 
upturned eyes, from her prayer-book. 

Perplexed, anxious, excited, Beatrix looked 
down on the collapsed and haggard* face of 
the old lady, and listened to the moaned pe- 
tition, “ Lord have mercy upon us !” which 
trembled from her lips as it might from those 
of a fainting sinner on a death-bed. 

^ Guy Deverell, as I shall henceforward call 
him, thinking of nothing but escape into soli- 
tude, was soon a good way from the house. 
He was too much agitated, and his thoughts 
too confused at first, to estimate all the 
possible consequences of the sudden disclo- 
sure he had just made. 

What would Varbarriere, who could be 
stern and violent, say or do, when he learned 
of it ? Here was the one injunction on which 
he had been ever harping violated. He felt 
how much he owed to the unceasing care of 
that able and disinterested friend through all 
his life, and how had he repaid it all ! 

“ Anything but deception — anything but 
that I could not endure the agony of my 
position longer — yes, agony .” 

He was now wandering by the bank of the 
solitary river, and looked back at the pictur- 
esque gables of Marlowe Manor through the 
trees ; and he felt that he was leaving all 
that could possibly interest him in existence 
in leaving Marlowe. Always was rising in 
his mind the one thought, “ What does she 
think of my deception and my agitation— 
what can she think of me 

It is not easy, even in silence and alone, 
when the feelings are at all ruffled, to follow 
out a train of thought. Guy thought of his 
approaching farewell to his uncle : he some- 
times heard his great voice thundering in 
despair and fury over his ruined schemes — 
schemes, be they what they might, at least 


unselfish. Then he thought of the effect of 
the discovery on Sir Jekyl, who, no doubt, 
had special reasons for alarm connected with 
this name — a secret so jealously guarded by 
Varbarriere. Then he thought of hi" future. 
His commission in the French armyf^ waited 
him. A life of drudgery or listlessne&s ? Ho 
such thing ! a career of adventure and glory 
— ending in a baton or death ! Death is so 
romantic in the field ! There aro always 
some beautiful eyes to drop in secret those 
tears which are worth d3dng for. It is not a 
crowded trench where fifty corpses pig to- 
gether in the last noisome sleep — but an 
apotheosis ! 

He was sure he had done well in yielding 
to the impulse that put an end to the tedious 
teachery he had been doomed to practise ; 
and if well, then wisely — so, no more retro- 
spection. 

All this rose and appeared in fragments 
like a wreck in the eddies of his mind. 

One thing was clear — he must leave Mar- 
lowe forthwith. He could not meet his host 
again. He stood up. It is well to have hit 
upon anything to be done — anything quite 
certain. 

With rapid steps he now returned to Mar- 
lowe, wondering how far he had walked, as 
it seemed to him in so mere a moment of 
time. 

The house was deserted ; so fine a day had 
tempted all its inmates but old Lady Alice 
abroad. He sent to the village of Marlowe 
for a chaise, while Jacques, who was to await 
where he was the return of his master. 
Monsieur Varbarriere, got his luggage into 
readiness, and he himself, wrote, having tried 
and torn up half a dozen, a note to Sir Jekyl, 
thanking him for his hospitality, and regret- 
ting that an unexpected occurrence made his . 
departure on so short a notice unavoidable. 
He did not sign it. He would not write his 
assumed name. Sir Jekyl Qould have no 
difficulty in knowing from which of his 
guests it came, perhaps would not even miss 
the signature. 

The chaise stood at the door-steps, his lug- 
gage stowed away, his dark short travelling 
cloak about his shoulders, and his note to 
Sir Jekyl in his fingers. 

He entered the great hall, meaning to place 
it on the marble table where Sir Jekyl’s notes 
and newspapers usually awaited him, and 
there he encountered Beatrix. 

There was no one else. She was crossing 
to the outer door, and they almost met before 
they came to a stop. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Strangways.” 

“ Pray call me by my real name, Deverell. 
Strangways was my mother’s ; and in obedi- 
ence to those who are wiser than I, during 
my journey I adopted it, although the rea- 
sons were not told me.” 

There was a little pause here. 

“ I am very glad I was so fortunate as to 
meet you. Miss Marlowe, before I left. I’m 
just going, and it would be such a privilege 
to know that you had not j udged me very 
hardly.” 

“ I am sure papa will be very sorry you 


88 


GUY DEYERELL. 


are going — a break-up is always a sad event 
— wc miss our guests so much,” she said, 
smiling, but a little pale. 

“ If you know my story. Miss Marlowe, 
you would acquit me,’^ he said, bursting 
forth all at once. “ Misfortune overtook me 
in my early childhood, before I can remem- 
! ber. I have no right to trouble you with 
the recital ; and in my folly I superadded 
this — the worst— that madly I gave my love 
to one who could not return it — who, per- 
haps, ought not to have returned it. Pardon 
me. Miss Marlowe, for talking of these things ; 
but as I am going away, and wished you 
to understand me, I thought, perhaps, you 
would hear me. Seeing how hopeless was 
my love, I never told it, but resolved to see 
her no more, and so to the end of my days 
. will keep my vow ; but this is added, that 
for her sake my life becomes a sacrifice — a 
real one — to guard her from sorrows and 
dangers, which I believe did threaten her, 
and to save her from which I devote myself, 
as perhaps she will one day understand. I 
thought I would just tell you so much before 
I went, and — and — that you are that lady. 
Farewell, dear Miss Marlowe, most beautiful 
— beloved.” 

He pressed her hand, he kissed it passion- 
ately, and was gone. 

It was not until she had heard the vehicle 
drive rapidly awa}^ that she quite recovered 
herself. She went into the front hall, and, 
through the window, standing far back, 
watclied the receding chaise. When it was 
out of sight, humming a gay air, she ran 
up-stairs, and into her bed-room, when, 
locking the door, she wept the bitterest tears, 
perhaps, she had ever shed, since the days 
of her childhood. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

AT THE BELL AND HORNS. 

With the reader’s permission, I must tell 
here how Monsieur Varbarriere proceeded 
on his route to Slowtou. 

As he mounted his vehicle from the steps 
of Wardlock, the flunkey, who was tantalised 
bj^ the very unsatisfactory result of his listen- 
ing at the parlor-door, considered him curi- 
ously. 

“ Go on towards the village,” said M. 
Varbarriere to the driver, in his deep foreign 
accents. 

And so soon as they were quite out of 
sight in the Wardlock flunkey, he opened the 
front window of his nondescript vehicle, and 
called — 

“ Drive to Slowton.” 

Which, accordingly, was done. M. Yar- 
barriere, in profound good humor, a flood 
of light and certainty having come upon him, 
sat back luxuriously in a halo of sardonic 
glory, and was smiling to himself, as men 
sometimes will over the chess-board when 
the rest of their game is secure. 

At the Bell and Horns he was received 
with a reverential welcome. 


A gentleman been inquiring for Monsieui 
Varbarriere ?” asked the foreign gentlman in 
black, descending. 

“ A gentleman, sir, as has took number 
seven, and expects a gentleman to call, but 
did not say ,}vho, which his name is Mr. 
Rumsey ?” 

“ Very good,” said Monsieur Varbarriere. 
Suddenly he recollected that General Len- 
nox’s letter might have reached the post- 
oflice, and, plucking a card from his case, 
wrote an order on it for his letters, which he 
handed to Boots, who trudged away to the 
post-office cWse by. 

Varbarriere was half sorry now that he 
had opened his correspondence with old 
General Lennox so soon. He had no hope 
that Donica Gwynn’s reserves would have 
melted and given way so rapidly in the in- 
terview which had taken place. He was a 
man who cared nothing about penal justice, 
who had embraced the world’s ethics early, 
and looked indulgently on escapades of 
human nature, and had no natural turn for 
cruelty, although he could be cruel enough 
when an object was to be accomplished. 

“ I don’t think I’d have done it, though he 
deserves it richly, and has little right to look 
for quarter at my hands.” 

And whichever of the gentlemen interested 
he may have alluded to, he cursed him under 
his breath ardently. 

In number seven there awaited him a tall 
and thin man of business, of a sad countenance 
and bilious, with a pale drab-colored and bar- 
red muslin cravat, tied with as much preci- 
sion as a curate’s ; a little bald at the top of his 
head ; a little stooped at his shoulders, He 
did not smile as Monsieur Varbarriere entered 
the room. He bowed in a meek and suffering 
way, and looked as if he had spent the morn- 
ing in reading Doctor Blewish’s pamphlet 
“ On the Ubiquity of Disguised Cholera Mor- 
bus,” or our good Bishop’s well-known tract 
on “ Self-Mortification.” There was a smell of 
cigars in the room, which should not have 
been had he known that Monsieur Var- 
barriere was to be here so early. His chest 
was weak, and the doctors ordered that sort 
of fumigation. 

Monsieur Varbarriere set his mind at ease 
by preparing himself to smoke one of the no- 
table large cigars, of which he carried always 
a dozen rounds or so in his case. 

“ You have brought the cases and opinions 
with you ?” inquired Varbarriere. 

The melancholy solicitor replied by opening 
a tin box from which he drew several sheafs 
of neatly labelled papers tied up in red tape ; 
the most methodical and quiet of attorneys, 
and one of the most efficient to be found. 

“ Smoke away ; you like it, so do I ; we can 
talk too, and look at these,” said Varbarriere, 
lighting his cigar. 

Mr. Rumsey bowed, and meekly lighted his 
also. 

Then began the conference on business. 

“ Where are Gamford’s letters ?— these — 
ho !” 

And as Monsieur Varbarriere read them, 
puffing away as fast as a furnace, and threw 


GI>Y DEVERELL. 


each down as lie would play a card, in turn, 
he would cry ‘ Bah ! ’ — ‘ Booh ! ’ — or, ‘ Did 
you ever read such Galamathias ?’ — and, at 
last — 

“ Who was right about that henet — you or 
I ? I told you what he was.” 

“ You will perceive iust now, I think, sir, 
that there are some things to value there 
notwithstanding. You can’t see their impor- 
tance until you shall have looked into the 
enlarged statement we have been enabled 
by the result of some fresh discoveries to 
submit to counsel.” 

“ Give me that case. Fresh discoveries, 
have you ? I venture to sa^^, when you’ve 
heard my notes, you’ll open your eyes. No, 
I mean the cigar-case ; well, you may give 
me that too.” 

So he took the paper, with its bluish 
briefing post pages, and broad margin, and 
the opinions of Mr. Serjeant Edgeways and 
Mr. Whaulbane, Q.C., copied in the same 
large, round hand at the conclusion. 

“ Well, these opinions are stronger than I 
, expected. There is a bit here in Wliaul- 
' bane’s I don’t like so well — what you call 
fishy, you know. But you shall hear just 
now what I can add to our proofs, and you 
will see what becomes of good Mr. Whaul- 
bane’ s doubts and queries. You said always 
you did not think they had destroyed the 
deed ?” 

“ If well advised, they did not. I go that 
length. Because the deed, although it told 
against them while a claimant in the Deverell 
line appeared, would yet be an essential part 
of their case in the event of their title being 
attacked from the BraCton quarter; and 
therefore the fact is, they could not destroy 
it.” 

“ They are both quite clear upon the ques- 
tion of secondary evidence of the contents of 
a lost deed, I see,” said Varbarriere, musingly, 
“ and think our proof satisfactory. Those 
advocates, however — why do they ? — always 
say their say with so many reserves and mis- 
givings, that you begin to think they know 
very little more of the likelihoods of the 
matter, with all their pedantry, than you do 
yourself ” 

“ The glorious uncertainty of the law !” 
ejaculated Mr. Runasey, employing a phrase 
which I have heard "before, and with the 
nearest approach to a macerated smile which 
his face had yet worn. 

“ Ay,” said Varbarriere in his metallic 
tones of banter, “ the glorious uncertainty of 
the law. That must be true, for you’re 
always saying it ; and it must be pleasant 
too, if one could only see it ; for, my fiiith ! 
you look almost cheerful while you say it.” 

“ It makes counsel cautious, though it does 
«not cool clients when they’re once fairly 
blooded,” said Mr. Rumsey. “ A*client is a 
wonderful thing sometimes. There would 
not be half the money made of our profession 
if men kept their senses when they go into 
law ; but they seldom do. Lots of cool gam- 
blers at every other game, but no one ever 
keeps his head at law.” 

“ That’s encouraging ; thank you. Suppose 


89 

I take your advice, and draw stakes ?” said 
Varbarriere. 

“ You have no notion,’’ said Mr. Rumse}^ 
resignedly. 

“ Well, I believe you’re right, monsieur ; 
and I believe I am right too ; and if you 
have any faith in your favorite oracles, so 
must you ; but, have you done your cigar ? 
Well, take your pen for a moment and listen 
to me, and note what I say. When Deverell 
came down with his title deeds to Marlowe, 
they gave him the Window dressing-room 
for his bed-room, and the green chamber, 
with the bed taken down, for his dressing- 
room ; and there he placed his papers, with 
the key turned in the door. In the morning 
his attorney came. It was a meeting about 
a settlement of the mortgage ; and when the 
papers were overhauled it was found that 
that deed had been abstracted. Very good. 
Now listen to what I have to relate concern- 
ing the peculiar construction of that room.” 

So Monsieur Varbarriere proceeded to re- 
late minutely all he had ascertained that 
day, much to the quiet edification of Mr. 
Rumsey, whose eyes brightened, and whose 
frontal wrinkles deepened as he listened. 

“ I told you I suspected some legerdemain 
S,bout that room long ago ; the idea came to 
me oddly. When on a visit to the Marquis 
de Mirault he told me that in making alter- 
ations in the chateau they had discovered a 
false door into one of the bed-rooms. The 
tradition of this contrivance, which was singu- 
larly artful, was lost. It is possible that the 
secret of it perished with its first possessor. 
By means of this door the apartment in 
question was placed in almost immediate con- 
j unction with another, which, except through 
this admirably concealed door, could not be 
reached from it without a long circuit. The 
proximity of the rooms, in fact, had been, by 
reason of the craft with which they were ap- 
parently separated, entirely overlooked.” 

The attorney observed, sadly — 

“ The French are an ingenious people.” 

“ The curiosity of my friend was excited,” 
continued Varbarriere, “ and with some little 
search among family records he found that 
this room, which was constructed in the way 
of an addition to the chateau, had been built 
about the beginning of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, during the marquisate of one of the 
line, who was celebrated as un homine a 
bonnes fortunes^ you understand, and its object 
was now quite palpable.” 

“A man, no doubt, of ability — a long- 
headed gentleman,” mused the melancholy 
attorney. 

“ Well, at Marlowe I saw a collection of 
elevations of the green chamber, as it is 
called, built only two or three years later — 
and, mind this, by the same architect, an 
Italian, called Paulo Abruzzi, a remarkable 
name, which I perfectly remembered as 
having been mentioned by my friend the 
Marquis as the architect of his ancestral 
relict of Cupid’s legerdemain. But here is 
the most remarkable circumstance, and to 
which my friend Sir Jekyl quite innocently 
gave its proper point. The room under this 


90 


GUY DEVERELL. 


chamber, and, of course, in the same build- 
ing, was decorated with portraits painted in 
the panel, and one of them was this identi- 
cal Marquis de Mirault, with the date 1711, 
and the Baronet was good enough to tell me 
that he had been a very intimate friend, and 
had visited his grandfather, at Marlowe.” 



CHAPTER XLIY. 

M. varbariiiere’s plans. 

Varbakriere solemnly lighted a cigar, 
and squinted at its glowing point with his 
great dark eyes, in which the %iild attorney 
saw the lurid reflection. When it was well 
lighted he went on — 

“ You may suppose how this confirmed 
my theory. I set about my inquiries quietly, 
and was convinced that Sir Jekyl knew all 
about it, by his disquietude whenever I 
evinced- an interest in that portion of the 
building. But I managed matters very slyly, 
and collected proof very nearly demonstra- 
tive ; and at this moment he has not a notion 
who I am.” 

“ No. It will be a surprise when he does 
learn,” answered the attorney, sadly. 

“ A fine natural hair-dye is the air of the 
East Indies: first it turns light to black, 
and then black to grey. Then, my faith ! 
— a bronzed face with plenty of furrows, a 
double chin, and a great beard to cover it, 
and eleven stone weight expanded to seven- 
teen stone — Gorpo di Bacco ! — and* six 
pounds f ’ 

And Monsieur Varbarriere laughed like the 
clang and roar of a chime of cathedral bells. 

“ It will be a smart blow,” said the attorney, 
almost dreamily. 

“ Smash him,” said Yarbarriere. “ The 
Deverell estate is something over five thou- 
sand a-year ; and the mesne rates, with four 
per cent interest, amount to 213,000?.” 

“ He’ll defend it,” said the knight of the 
sorrowful countenance, who was now gather- 
ing in his papers. 

“ I hope he will,” growled Yarbarriere, 
with a chuckle. “ He has not a leg to stand 
on— all the better for you^ at all events ; 
and then I’ll brmg down that other hammer 
on his head.” * 

“ The criminal proceedings ?” murmured the 
sad attorney. 

“ Ay. I can prove that case myself— he 
fired before his time, and killed him. I’m 
certain simply to get the estate. I was the 
only person present — poor Guy ! Jekyl 
had me in his pocket then. The rascal 
wanted to thrust me down and destroy me 
afterwards. He employed that Jew house, 
Robenzahl and Isaacs — the villain ! Luck 
turned, and I am a rich fellow now, and his 
turn is coming, ^ive la justice eternelle ! 
Yive la bagatelle ! Bravo ! Bah !” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere had another pleasant 
roar of laughter here, and threw his hat at 
the solemn attorney’s head. 

“You’ll lunch with me,” said Yarbarriere. 

“ Thanks ” murmured the attorney. 


“ And now the war — the campaign — wha: 
next?” 

“ You’ll make an exact note,” the attoruej 
musingly replied, “ of what that womai 
Wynn or Gwynn can prove; also what tin 
Lord Bishop of what’s-his-name can prove 
and it strikes me we shall have to 'serv< 
some notice to intimidate Sir Jekyl abou 
that red-leather box, to prevent his making 
away with the deed, and show him we knov 
it is there ; or perhaps apply for an order t( 
make him lodge the deed in court ; but Ton 
W'eavel — he’s always in town— will ad vis* 
us. You don’t think that woman will leav< 
us in the Ij-irch ?” 

“No,” said Yarbarriere, as if he wa 
thinking of something else. “ That Honici 
Gwynn, you mean. She had that greei 
chamber to herself, you see, for a matter oi 
three years.” 

“ Yes,” 

“ And she’s one of those old domesti 
Dianas who are sensitive about scandal- 
you understand — and she knows what ill 
natured people would say ; so I quieted he 
all I could, and I don’t think she’ll ventur 
to recede. No ; she certainly won’t.” 

“ How soon can you let me have the notes 
sir?” 

“ To-morrow, when I return. I’ve an a^ 
pointment to keep by rail to-night, and I’] 
make a full memorandum from my notes a 
I go along.” 

“ Thanks — and what are your instruc 
tions?” 

“ Send back the cases with copies of th 
new evidence.” 

“ And assuming a favorable opinion, si] 
arc my instructions to proceed ?” - 

“ Certainly, my son, forihwith — the gra^ 
it must not grow under our feet.” 

“ Of course subject to counsel’s opinion ? 
said the attorney, sadly. 

“ To be sure.” ^ 

“ And which first — the action or the indici 
ment ? or both together ?” asked Mr. Rumse] 
^^That for counsel too. Only my genen 
direction is, let the onset be as sudden, vie 
lent, and determined as possible. You see ?” 

The attorney nodded gently, tying up hi 
last bundle of papers *as softly as a lad 
might knot her ribbon round the neck of he 
lap-dog. 

“ You see?” 

“ Yes, sir ; your object is destructioi 
Delenda est Carthago— that’s the word, 
murmured Mr. Bumsey, plaintively. 

» Yes— ha, ha !— what you call double hii 
up ’.’’clanged out Yarbarriere, with an e^ 
ulting oath and a chuckle. 

The attorney had locked up his dispatch 
box now, and putting the little bunch of key 
deep into his trowsers pocket, he said, “ Yes 
that’s the^word ; but I suppose you have cou 
sidered” 

“ What? I’m tired considering. 

“ I was going to say whether some mor 
certain result might not be obtainable b 
negotiation ; that is, if you thought it a cas 
for. negotiation.” 

“ What negotiation ? What do you mean 


GUY DEVERELL, 


91 


“ Well, you see there are materials — there’s 
something to yield at both sides,” said the 
attorney, very slowly, in a diplomatic rev- 
erie. 

“ But why should you think of a com- 
promise, the worst thing I fancy could 
happen you 

There was a general truth in this. It is 
not the ferryman’s interest to build a bridge, 
nor was it Mr. Rumsey’s that his client should 
walk high and dry over those troubled 
waters through which it was his privilege 
and profit to pilot him. But he had not 
quite so much faith in this case as Monsieur 
’ Varbarriere had, and he knew that his 
wealtliy and resolute client could grow 
savage enough in defeat, and had once or 
twice had stormy interviews with him after 
failures. 

“ If the young gentleman and young lady 
liked one another, for instance, the conflict- 
ing claims might be reconciled, and a marri-. 
age would in that case arrange the difference.” 

“ There’s nothing very deep in that,” 
snarled Varbarriere, “ but there is everything 
impracticable. Do you think Guy Deverell, 
whose father that lache murdered before my 
eyes, could ever endure to call him father ? 
Bah ! If I thought so I would drive him 
from my presence and never behold him 
more. No, no, no ! There is more than an 
estate in all this — there is justice, there is 
‘punishmenV' 

Monsieur Varbarriere, with his hands in 
. his pockets, took a turn up and down the 
room, and his solemn steps shook the floor, 
and his countenance was agitated by violence 
and hatred. 

“ The pale, thin attorney eyed him with a 
gentle and careworn obs *-* nation. His re- 
spected client was heaving with a great 
toppling swagger as he to-ed and fro-ed in 
his thunderstorm, looking as black as the 
Spirit of Evil. 

This old-maidish attorney was meek and 
wise, but by no means timid. He was accus- 
tomed to hear strong language, and sometimes 
even oaths, without any strange emotion. 
He looked on this sort of volcanic demon- 
stration scientifically, as a policeman does 
on drunkenness — knew its stages, and when 
is was best left to itself. 

Mr. Rumsey, therefore, poked the fire a 
little, and then looked out of the window. 

“ You don’t go to town to-night ?” 

“ Not if you require me here, sir.” 

“ Yes, I shall have those memoranda to 
give you — and tell me now, I think you 
know your business. Do you think, as we 
now stand, success is certain V' 

“Well, sir, it certainly is very strong — 
very ; but I need not tell you a case will 
sometimes take a queer turn, and I never like 
to tell a client that anything is absolutely 
certain — a case is sometimes carried out of 
its legitimate course, you see ; the judges 
may go wrong, or the juiy bolt, or a witness 
may break down, or else a bit of evidence 
may start up — it’s a responsibility we never 
take on ourselves to say that of any case ; 
and you know there has been a good deal 


of time — and that sometimes raises a feeling 
with a jury.” 

“ Ay, a quarter of a century, but it can’t 
be helped. For ten years of that time I 
could not show, I owed money to everybody. 
Then, when I was for striking on the crimi- 
nal charge for murder^ or manslaughter^ or 
whatever you agreed it was to be, you all 
said I must begin with the civil action, and 
first oust him from Guy Deverell’s estate. 
Well, there you told me I could not move 
till he was twenty-five, and now you talk of 
the good deal of time — mafoi ! — as if it was 
I who delayed, and not you, messieurs. But 
enough, past is past. We have the present, 
and I’ll use it.” 

“ We are to go on, then?” 

“ Yes, we’ve had to wait too long. Stop 
for nothing, drive right on, you see, at the 
fastest pace counsel can manage. If I saw 
the Deverell estate where it should be, and 
a judgment for the mesne rates, and Sir 
Jek3d Marlowe in the dock for his crime, I 
don’t say I should sing nunc dimittis ; but, 
parhleu, sir, it would be very agreeable — ha !• 
ha ! ha !” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

TE^IPEST. 

“ Does Mr. Guy Deverell know anjqhing 
of the measures you contemplate in his be- 
half?” inquired the attorney. 

“ Nothing. Do you think me a fool ? 
Young men are such asses !” 

“You know, however, of course, that he 
will act. The proceedings, you know, must 
be in his name.” 

“ Leave that to me.” 

Varbarriere rang the bell and ordered 
luncheon. There were grouse and trout — 
he was in luck — and some cream cheese, for 
which rural delicacy he had a fancy. They 
brew very great ale at Slowton, like the 
Welsh, and it was a novelty to the gentle- 
man of foreign habits, who eat as fastidiously 
as a Frenchman, and as largely as a Ger- 
man. On the whole it was satisfactory, and 
the high-shouldered, Jewish-looking sybarite 
shook hands in a very friendly way with liis 
attorney in the afternoon, on the platform 
at Slowton, and glided off toward Chester, 
into which ancient town he thundered, 
screaming like a monster rushing on its 
prey ; and a victim awaited him in the old 
commercial hotel ; a tall, white-headed mili- 
tary-looking man, with a white moustache 
twirled up fiercely at the corners; whose 
short pinkish face and grey eyes, as evening 
deepened, were pretty constantly presented 
at the window of the coffee-roo\n next the 
street door of the inn. From that post he 
saw all the shops and gas-lamps, up and 
down the street, gradually lighted. The 
gaselier in the centre of the coffee-room, 
with its six muffed glass globes, flared up 
over the rumpled and coffee-stained morning 
newspapers and the almanac, and the bat- 
tered and dissipated-looking railway guide, 
with corners curled and back coming to 


92 


GUY DEVERELL. 


pieces, which he consulted every ten minutes 
through his glasses. 

How many consultations he had had with 
the waiter upon the arrival of trains due at 
various hours, and how often the injunction 
had been repeated to see that no mistake 
'occurred about the private room he had or- 
dered ; and how reiterated the order that 
any gentleman inquiring for General Lennox 
should be shown at once into his presence, 
tlie patient waiter with the bilious complex- 
ion could tell. 

As the time drew near, the General hav- 
ing again conferred with the waiter, con- 
versed with the porter, and even talked a 
little with Boots — withdrew to his small 
square sitting-room and pair of candles up- 
stairs, and awaited the arrival of Monsieur 
Varbarriere, with his back to the fire, in a 
state of extreme fidget. ^ 

That gentleman’s voice he soon heard 
upon the passage, and the creaking of his 
heavy tread ; and he felt as he used, when a 
young soldier, on going into action. 

• The General stepped forward. The waiter 
announced a gentleman who wished to see 
him; and Varbarriere’s dark visage and 
mufflers, and sable mantle loomed behind ; 
his felt hat in his hand, and his wavy cone 
of grizzled hair was bowing solemnly. 

“ Glad you’re come — how d’ye do ?” and 
Varbarriere’s fat brown hand was seized by 
the General’s pink and knotted fingers in a 
very cold and damp grasp. “ Come in and 
sit down, sir. What will you take ? — tea, or 
dinner, or what ?” 

“ Very much obliged. I have ordered 
something, by-and-by, to my room — thank 
you very much. I thought, however, that 
you might possibly wish to see me imme- 
diately, and so I am here, at all events, as 
you soldiers say, to report myself,’’ said Var- 
barriere; with his unctuous politeness. 

“ Yes, it better, I’d rather have it now,” 
answered the General, in a less polite and 
more literal way. “A chair, sir;” and he 
placed one betore the fire, which he poked 
into a blaze. “I — I hope you are not 
fatigued,” — here the door shut, and the 
waiter was gone ; “ and I want to hear, sir, if 
you please, the — the meaning of the letter 
you favored me with.” 

The General by tliis time had it in his 
hand open, and tendered it, I suppose for 
identification, to M. Varbarriere, who, how- 
ever, politely waved it back. 

“ I quite felt the responsibility I took upon 
myself when I wrote as I did. That respon- 
sibility of course I accept ; and I have come 
all this way, sir, for no other purpose than to 
justify my expressions, and to invite you to 
bring them to the test.” 

“ Of course, sir. Thank you,” said the 
General. 

Varbarriere had felt a momentary qualm 
about this particular branch of the business 
which he had cut out for himself. When he 
wrote to General Lennox he was morally 
certain of the existence of a secret passage 
into that green room, and also of the rela- 
tions which he had for some time suspected 


between Sir Jekyl and his fair guest. On 
the whole it was not a bad coup to provide, 
by means of the old General’s jealousy, such 
literal proof as he still required of the con- 
cealed entrance, through which so much 
villainy had been accomplished — and so his 
letter — and now its consequences — about 
which it was too late to think. 

General Lennox, standing by the table, 
with one candle on the chimneypiece and 
his glasses to his eyes, read aloud, with some 
little stumbling, these words from the letter 
of Monsieur Varbarriere : — 

“ The reason of my so doing will be ob- 
vious when I say that I have certain circum- 
stances to lay before you which nearly affect 
your honor. I decline making any detailed 
statement by letter ; nor will I explain my 
meaning at Marlowe Manor. But if, without 
fracas, you will give me a private meeting, 
at any place between this and London, I will 
make it my business to see you, when I shall 
sMisfy you that I have not made this request 
without the gravest reasons.” 

“ Those are the passages, sir, on which you 
are so good as to offer me an explanation ; 
and first, there’s the phrase, you know, ‘ cer- 
tain circumstances to lay before you which 
nearly affect your Twnorf that’s a word, you 
know, sir, that a fellow feels in a way — in a 
way that can’t be trifled with.” 

“ Certainly. Put your question. General 
Lennox, how you please,” answered Varbar- 
riere, with a grave bow. 

“ Well, how — how — exactly — I’ll — I wdll 
put my question. I’d like to know, sir, in 
what relation — in — yes — in what relation, as * 
a soldier, sir, or as a gentleman, or as — 
wliatV 

“ I am very much concerned to say, sir, 
that it is in the very nearest and most sacred 
interest, sir — as a husband'^ 

General Lennox had sat down by this time, 
and was gazing with a frank stern stare full 
into the dark countenance of his visitor ; and 
in reply he made two. short little nods, clear- 
ing his voice, and lowering his eyes to the 
table. 

It was a very trifling way of taking it. 
But Varbarriere saw his face flush fiercely up 
to the very roots of his silver hair, and he 
fancied he could see the vessels throbbing in 
his temples. 

“ I — very good, sir — thank you,” said the 
General, looking up fiercely and shaking his 
ears, but speaking in a calm tone. 

“ Go on, pray— let me know — I say — in 
God’s name, don’t keep me.” 

“ Now, sir. I’ll tell it to you briefly — ^I’ll 
afterwards go into whatever proof you desire. 

I have reason, I deeply regret it, to believe— r 
in fact to know — that an immoral intimacy 
exists between Sir Jekyl Marlowe and Lady 
Jane Lennox.” m- 

“ It’s a lie, sir !” screamed the General— “ a 
damned lie, sir — a damned lie, sir — a damned 
lie sir.” 

His gouty claw was advanced trembling 
as if to clutch the muffler that was folded 
about Monsieur Varbarriere’s throat, but he 
dropped back in his seat again shaking, and 


GUY DEYERELL. 


93 


ran his fingers through his white hair several 
times. There was a silence which even M. 
Varbarriere did not like. 

Yarbarriere was not the least offended at 
his violence. He knew quite well that the 
General did not understand what he said, or 
mean, or remember it — that it was only the 
wild protest of agony. For the first time he 
felt a compunction about that old foozle who 
had hitherto somehow counted for nothing 
in the game he was playing, and he saw him, 
years after, as he had shrieked at him that 
night, with his claw stretched towards his 
throat, ludicrous, and also terrible. 

“ My God ! sir,” cried tlie old man, with a 
quaver that sounded like a laugh, “ do you 
tell me so ?” 

“ It’s true, sir,’’ said Yarbarriere. 

“ How, sir. I’ll not interrupt you— tell all, 
pray — hide nothing,” said the General. 

“ I was, sir, accidentally witness to a con- 
versation which is capable of no other inter- 
pretation ; and I have legal proof of the exis- 
tence of a secret door, connecting the apart- 
ment which has been assigned to you, at 
Marlowe, with Sir Jekyl’s room.” 

“ The damned villain ! What a fool,” and 
then very fiercely he suddenly added, “ You 
can prove all this, sir ? I hope you can.” 

“ All this, and more, sir. I suspect, sir, 
there will hardly be an attempt to deny it.” 

“ Oh, sir, it’s terrible ; but I was such a 
fool. I had no business— I deserve it all. 
Who’d have imagined such villains? But, 
d me, sir, I can’t believe it.” 

There was a tone of anguish in the old 
man’s voice which made even his grotesque 
and feeble talk terrible. 

“I say there can’t be such devils on 
earth and then he broke into an incoherent 
story of all his trust and love, and all that 
Jane owed him, and of her nature which 
was frank and generous, and how she never 
hid a thought from him — open as heaven, 

sir. What business was it of his, d him ! 

What did he mean by trying to set a man 
against his wife ? Ho one but a scoundrel 
ever did it. 

Yarbarriere stood erect. 

“ You may submit how you like, sir, to 
your fate ; but you shan’t insult me, sir, with- 
out answering for it. My note left it optional 
to you to exact my information or to remain 
in the darkness,^ which it seems you prefer. 
If you wish it. I’ll make my bow— it’s nothing 
to me, but two can play at that game. I’ve 
fought perhaps oftener than you, and you 
shan’t bully meP 

“ I suppose you’re right, sir — don’t go, 
pray — I think I’m half mac?, sir,” said General 
Lennox, despairingly. 

“ Sir, I make allowance — I forgive your 
language, but if you want to talk to me, it 
must be with proper respect. I’m as good a 
gentleman as you ; my statement is, of 
course, strictly true, and if you please you 
can test it.” 

chapter xlyi. 

gut deverell at slowton. 

“ Come, sir, I have a right to know it — 


have you not an object in fooling me ?” said 
General Lennox, relapsing all on a sudden 
into his ferocious vein. 

“ In telling you the truth, sir, I ham an 
object, perhaps, — but seeing that it is the 
truth, and concerns you so nearly, you need 
not trouble yourself about my object,” an- 
swered Yarbarriere, with more self-command 
than w*as to have been expected. 

“ I will test it, sir. I will try you,” said the 

General, sternly. “ By I’ll sift it to the 

bottom.” 

“ So you ought, sir ; that’s what I mean to 
help you to,” said Yarbarriere. 

“ How, sir ?— say hmD^ and by Heaven, sir, 
I’ll shoot him like a dog.” 

“ The w^ay to do it I’ve considered. I 
shall place you probably in possession of such 
proof as will thoroughly convince you.” 

“ Thank you, sir, go on.” 

“I shall be at Marlowe to-morrow- you 
must arrive late — on no account earlier than 
half-past twelve. I will arrange to have you 
admitted t)y the glass door— through the con- 
servatory. Don’t bring your vehicle beyond 
the bridge, and leave your luggage at the 
Marlowe Arms. The object, sir, is this,” 
said Yarbarriere, with deliberate emphasis, 
observing that the General’s grim counte- 
nance did not look as apprehensive as he 
wished, “ that your arrival shall be unsus- 
pected. Ho one must know anything of it 
except myself and another, until you shall 
have reached your room. Do you see ?” 

“ Thanks, sir — yes,” answered the General, 
looking as unsatisfactory as before. 

“ There are two recesses with shelves — 
one to the right, the other to the left of the 
bed’s head as you look from the door. The 
secret entrance I have mentioned lies through 
that at the right. You most not permit any 
alarm which may b© intended to reach Sir 
Jekyl. Secure the door and do you sit up 
and watch. There’s a Way of securing the 
secret door from the inside — which I’ll ex- 
plain — that premnt his entrance - don’t 

allow it. The whole — pardon me, sir — in- 
trigue will in that case be disclosed without 
the possibility of a prevarication. You have 
followed me, I hope, distinctly.” 

“ I— I’m a little flurried, I believe, sir ; I 
have to apologise. I’ll ask you, by-and-by, 
t6 repeat it. I think I should like to be 
alone, sir. She wrote me a letter, sir — I wish 
I had died when I got it.” 

When Yarbarriere looked at him, he saw 
that the old East Indian was crying. 

“ Sir, I grieve with you,” said Yaiharriere, 
funereall}^ “You can command my pre- 
sence whenever you choose to send for me. 
I shall remain in this house. It will be ab- 
solutely necessary^ of course, that you should 
see me again.” 

“ Thank you, sir. I know — I’m sure you 
mean kindly — but God only knows all it is.” 

He had shaken his hand very affection- 
ately, without any meaning — without know- 
ing that he had done so. 

Yarbarriere said — 

“ Don’t give way, sir, too much. If there 
is this sort of misfortune, it is much better 


91 


GUY DEVERELL. 


discovered— better. You’ll think so 
just now. You’ll view it quite differently in 
the morning. Call for me the moment you 
want me — farewell, sir.” 

So Varbarriere was conducted to his bed- 
room, and made, beside his toilet, conscien- 
tious inquiries about his late dinner, which 
was in an advanced state of preparation ; 
and when he went down to partake of it, he 
had wonderfully recovered the interview 
with General Lennox. Notwithstanding, 
however, he drank two glasses of sherry, 
contrary to gastronomic laws, before begin- 
ning. Then, however, he made, even for 
him, a very good dinner. 

He could not help wondering what a pro- 
digious fuss the poor old fogey made about 
this little affair. He could not enter the 
least into his state of mind. She was a fine 
woman, no doubt ; but there were others — 
no stint— and he had been married quite 
long enough to sober and acquire an appe- 
tite for liberty. 

What w^as the matter with the (Ad fellow ? 
But that it was insufferably comical, he 
could almost find it in his heart to pity 
him. 

Once or twice as he smoked his cigar he 
could not forbear shaking with laughter, 
the old Philander’s pathetics struck him so 
sardonically. 

I really think the state of that old gentle- 
man, who certainly had attained to years of 
philosophy, was rather ' serious. That is, I 
dare say that a competent medical man wuth 
his case under observation at that moment 
would have pronounced him on the verge 
either of a fit or of insanity. 

When Yarbarriere had left the room. Gen- 
eral Lennox threw himself on the red damask 
sofa, which smelled powerfully of yesterday’s 
swell bagman’s tobacco, never perceiving 
that stale fragrance, nor the thinness of the 
cushion which made the ribs and vertebrae 
of the couch unpleasantly perceptible be- 
neath. Then, with his knees doubled up, 
and the “ Times ” newspaper over his face, 
he wept, and moaned, and uttered such plain- 
tive hideous maunderings as would do no- 
body good to hear of. 

A variety of wise impulses visited him. 
One was to start instantaneously for Marlowe 
and fight Sir Jekyl that night by candle- 
light; another to write to his wife for the 
last time as his wife — an eternal farewell — 
which perhaps would have been highly 
absurd, and affecting at the same time. 

About two hours after Yarbarriere’s de- 
parture for dinner, he sent for that gentle- 
man, and they had another, a longer, and 
a more collected interview — if not a happier 
one. 

The result was, that Yarbarriere’s advice 
prevailed, as one might easily foresee, having 
a patient so utterly incompetent to advise 
himself. 

‘The attorney having shaken hands with 
Monsieur Yarbarriere, and watched from 
the platform the gradual disappearance of 
the train that carried him from the purlieus 
of Slowton, with an expression of face 


plaintive as that with which Dido on the 
wild sea banks beheld the receding galleys 
of ^neas, loitered back again dolorously to 
the hostelry. 

He arrived at the door exactly in time to 
witness the descent of Guy Deverell from 
his chaise. I think he would have preferred 
not meeting him, it would have saved him a 
few boring questions ; but it was by no means 
a case for concealing himself He therefore 
met him with a melancholy frankness on the 
steps. 

The young man recognised him. 

“Mr. Rumsey ? — How do you do ? Is my 
uncle here ?” 

“ He left by the last train.. I hope I see 
you well, sir.” 

“ Gone ? and where to ?” 

“ He did not tell me.” That was true, 
but the attorney had seen his valise labelled 
“ Chester ” by his direction. “ He went by 
the London train, but he said he would be 
back to-morrow. Can I do anything? 
Your arrival was not expected.” 

“ Thank you. I think not. It was just a 
word with my uncle I wished. You say he 
will be here again in the morning ?” 

“ Yes, so he said. I’m waiting to see 
him;” 

“ Then I can’t fail to meet him if I remain.” 
The attorney perceived with his weatherwise 
experience, the traces of recent storm, both in 
the countenance and manner of this young 
man, whose restiveness just now might be 
troublesome. 

“ Unless your business is urgent, I think 
— if you’ll excuse me — you had better return 
to Marlowe,” remarked the attorney. You’ll 
find it more comfortable quarters, a good deal, 
and your uncle will be very much hurried 
while here, and means to return to Marlowe 
to-morrow evening. 

“ But I shan’t. I don’t mean to return ; 
in fact, I wush to speak to him here. I’ve 
delayed you on the steps, sir, very rudely ; 
the wind is cold.” 

So he bowed, and they entered together, 
and the attorney, whose curiosity was now a 
little piqued, found he could make nothing 
of him, and rather disliked him ; his reserve 
was hardly fair in so very young a person, 
and practised by one who had not yet won 
his spurs against so redoubted a champion 
as the knight of the rueful countenance. 

Next morning, as M, Yarbarriere had pre- 
dicted, General Lennox, although sleep had 
certainly had little to do with the change, 
was quite a different man in some respects — 
in no wise happier, but much more collect- 
ed ; and now he promptly apprehended and 
detained Monsieur Yarbarriere’s plan, wTiich 
it was agreed was to be executed that night. 

More than once Yarbarriere’s compunc- 
tions revisited him as he sped onwards 
that morning from Chester to Slowton. 
But as men will, he bullied these mis-^ 
givings and upbraidings into submission. 
He had been once or twice on the point of 
disclosing this portion of the complication 
to his attorney, but an odd sort of shyness 
prevented. He fancied that possibly the 


GUY DEVERELL. 


95 


picture and liis part in it were not alto- 
gether pretty, and somehow he did not care 
to expose himself to the secret action of the 
attorney’s thoughts. 

Even in his own mind it needed' the 
strong motive which had first prompted it. 
Now it was no longer necessary to explore 
the mystery of that secret door through 
which the missing deed, and indeed the 
Deverell estate,- had been carried into old 
Sir Harry’s cupboard. But what was to be 
done? He had committed himself to the 
statement. General Lennox had a right to 
demand — in fact, he had promised— a dis- 
tinct explanation. 

Yes, a distinct explanation, and, further, 
a due corroboration by proof of that expla- 
nation. It was all due to Monsieur Var- 
barriere, who had paid that debt to his 
credit and conscience, and behold what a 
picture 1 Three familiar figures, irrevocably 
transformed, and placed in what a halo of 
infernal light. 

“ The thing could not be helped, and, 
whether or no, it was only right. Why the 
devil should I help Jekyl Marlowe to de- 
ceive and disgrace that withered old gentle- 
man? I don’t think it would have fcen a 
pleasant position for me.” 

And all the respectabilities hovering near 
cried “ hear, hear, hear !” and Varbarriere 
shook up his head, and looked magisterial 
over the havoc of the last livid scene of the 
tragedy he had prepared; and the porter 
crying “ Slowtpn !” opened the door, and re- 
leased him. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

UNCLE AND NEPHEW, 

When he reached his room, having break- 
fasted handsomely in the coffee-room, and 
learned that early Mr. Rumsey had accom- 
plished a similar meal in his own sitting- 
room, he repaired thither, and entered forth- 
with upon their talk. 

It was a bright and pleasant morning; 
the poplar trees in front of the hotel were 
all glittering in the mellow early sunlight, 
and the birds twittering as pleasantly as if 
there was not a sorrow or danger on earth. 

“ Well, sir, true to my hour ;” said Mon- 
sieur Varbarriere, in his deep brazen tones, 
as smiling and wondrously he entered the 
attorney’s apartment. 

“ Good morning, sir— how d’ye do ? Have 
you got those notes prepared you men- 
tioned?” / 

“ That I have, sir, as you shall see, pencil 
though ; but that doesn’t matter — no ?” 

The vowel sounded grandly in the upward 
slide of Varbarriere’s titanic double tfass. 

The attorney took possession of the pocket- 
book containing these memoranda, and an- 
swered — 

“No, I can read it very nicely. Your 
nephew is here, by-the-bye; he came last 
night.” 

“ Guy ? What’s brought him here ?” 

M. Varbarriere’s countenance was over- 


cast. What had gone wrong ? Some cham- 
ber in his mine had exploded, he feared, 
prematurely. 

Varbarriere opened the door, intending to 
roar for Guy, but remembering where he 
was, and the dimensions of the place, he 
tugged instead at the bell-rope, and made his 
summons jangle wildly through the lower 
regions. 

“ Hollo !” cried Varbarriere from his thres- 
hold, anticipating the approaching waiter ; 
“ a young gentleman — a Mr. Guy Strang- 
ways, arrived last evening ?” 

“ Strangways, please, sir? Strangways? 
No, sir, I don’t think we ’av got no gentle- 
man of. that name in the ’ouse, sir.” 

“ But I know you hme. Go, make out 
where he is, and let him know that his uncle, 
Monsieur Varbarriere, has just arrived, and 
wants to see him — here^ may I?” with a 
glance at the attorney. 

“ Certainly.” 

“ There’s some mischief,” said Varbarriere, 
with a lowering glance at the attorney. 

“ It looks uncommon like it,” mused that 
gentleman, sadly. 

“Why doesn’t he come?” growled Var- 
barriere, with a motion of his heel like a 
stamp. “ What do you think he has done ? 
Some cursed sottise.” 

“ Possibly he has proposed marriage to the 
young lady, and been refused.” 

“ Refused ! I hope he has.” 

At this juncture the waiter returned. 

“ Well ?” 

“ No, sir, please. No one hin the ’ouse, 
sir. No such name.” 

“ Are you sure ?” asked Varbarriere of the 
attorney, in an under diapason. 

“ Perfectly — said he’d wait here for you. 
I told him you’d be here this morning,” an- 
swered he, dolorously. 

“ Go down, sir, and get me a list of the 
gentlemen in the house. I’ll pay for it,” 
said Varbarriere, with an imperious jerk of 
his hand. 

The ponderous gentleman in black was 
very uneasy, and well he might. So he 
looked silently out of the window which 
commands a view of the inn-yard, and his 
eyes wandered over a handsome manure- 
heap to the chicken-coop and paddling ducks, 
and he saw three horses’ tails in perspective 
in the chiaro-oscuro of the stable, in the 
open door of which a groom was rubbing a 
curb chain. He thought how wisely he had 
done in letting Guy know so little of his de- 
signs. And as he gloomily congratulated 
himself on his wise reserve, the waiter re- 
turned with a slate, and a double column of 
names scratched on it. 

Varbarriere having cast his eye over it, 
suddenly uttered an oath. 

“ Number 10 — that’s the gentleman. Go 
to number 10, and tell him his uncle wants 
him here,” roared Varbarriere, as if on the 
point of knocking the harmless waiter down. 

“ Read there !” he thundered, placing the 
slate, with a clang, before the meek attorney, 
who read opposite to number 10, “ Mr. G. 
Deverell.” 


96 


GUY DEVERELL. 


He pursed his mouth and looked up lacka- 
daisically at his glowering client, saying 
only “ Ha !” 

A minute after and Guy Deverell in person 
entered the room. He extended his hand 
deferentially to M. Varbarriere, who on his 
part drew himself up black as night, and 
thrust his hands half way to the elbows in 
his trowsers pockets, glaring thunderbolts in 
the face of the contumacious young man. 

“ You see jerking the slate with 

another clang before Guy. “ Did you give 
that name? Look at number ten^ sir.” 
Varbarriere w^as now again speaking French. 

“ Yes, sir, Guy Deverell — my own name, 
I shall never again consent to go by any 
other. I had no idea what it might involve 
— never.” 

The young man was pale but quite firm. 

“ You’ve broken your wrord, sir ; you have 
•ended your relations with me,” said Varbar- 
riere, with a horrible coldness. 

“ I am sorry, sir — I lime broken my prom- 
ise, but when I could not keep it without a 
worse deception. To the consequences, be 
they what they may, I submit, and I feel, 
sir, more deeply than you will ever know ^all 
the kindness you have shown me from my 
earliest childhood until now.” 

“ Infinitely fiattered,” sneered Varbarriere, 
with a mock bow. “ You have, I presume, 
disclosed your name to the people at Mar- 
lowe as frankl}^ as to those at Slowton ?” 

“ Lady Alice Redcliffe called me by my 
true name, and insisted it was mine. I could 
not deny it — I admitted the truth. Made- 
moiselle Marlowe was present also, and heard 
what passed. In little more than an hour 
after this scene I left Marlowe Manor. I did 
not see Sir Jekyl, and simply addressed a 
note to him saying that I was called away 
unexpectedly. I did not repeat to him the 
disclosure made to Lady Alice. I left that 
to the discretion of those who had heard it.” 

“ Their discretion — very good — and now. 
Monsieur Guy Deverell, I have done with 
you. I shan’t leave you as I took you up, 
absolutely penniless. I shall so place you as 
to enable you with diligence to earn your 
bread without degradation — that is all. You 
will be so good as to repair forthwith to 
London and await me at our quarters in St. 
James’s Street. I shall send you, by next 
post, a cheque to meet expenses in town — 
no, pray don’t thank me ; you might have 
thanked me by your obedience. I shan’t do 
much more to merit thanks. Your train 
starts from hence, I think, in half an hour.” 

Varbarriere nodded angrily, and moved 
his hand towards the door. 

“ Farewell, sir,” said Guy, bowing low, but 
proudly. 

“ One word more ” said Varbarriere, recol- 
lecting suddenly ; “ you have not arranged a 
correspondence with any person? answer 
me on your honor.” 

“ No, sir, on my honor.” 

“ Go, then. Adieu !” and Varbarriere 
turned from him brusquely, and so they 
parted. 

“ Am I to understand, sir,” inquired the 


attorney, “ that what has just occured modifies 
our instructions to proceed in those cases ?” 

“ Not at all, sir,” answered Varbarriere, 
firmly. 

“ You see the civil proceedings must all be 
in the name of the young gentleman— a party 
who is of age — and you see what I mean.” 

“ I undertake personally the entire respon- 
sibility ; you are to proceed in the name of 
Guy Deverell, and what is more, use the ut- 
most despatch, and spare no cost. When shall 
we open the battle ?” 

“ Why, I dare say next term ?” 

“ That is less than a month hence ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ By my faith, his hands will be pretty full 
by that time,” said Varbarriere, exultingly. 
“We must have the papers out again. I can 
give you all this day, up to half-past five 
o’clock. We must get the new case into shape 
for counsel. You run up to town this evening. 
I suspect I shall follow you to-morrow ; but 
I must run over first to Marlowe. I have left 
my things there, and my servant ; and I sup- 
pose I must take a civil leave of my enemy— 
there are courtesies, 5^ou know — as your prize- 
fighters shake hands in the ring.” 

The sun was pretty far down in the west by 
the time their sederunt ended. M. Var- 
barriere got into his short mantle and muf- 
flers, and donned his ugly felt hat, talking all 
the while in his deep metallic tones, with his 
sliding cadences and resounding emphases. 
The polite and melancholy attorney accom- 
panied his nutritious client to the door, and 
after he had taken his seat in his vehicle, they 
chatted a little earnestly through the window, 
agreeing that they had grown very “ strong ” 
indeed — anticipating nothing but victory, 
and in confidential whispers breathing 
slaughter. 

As Varbarriere, with his thick arm stuffed 
through one of the upholstered leathern loops 
with which it is the custom to flank the win- 
dows of all sorts of carriages, and his large 
varnished boot on the vacant cushion at the 
other side, leaned back and stared darkly and 
dreamily through the plate glass on the am- 
ber-tinted landscape, he felt rather oddly ap- 
proaching such persons and such scenes — a 
crisis with a remoter and more tremendous 
crisis behind — the thing long predicted in the 
whisperings of hope — the real thing long 
dreamed of, and now greeted strangely with 
a mixture of exultation and disgust. 

There are few men, I fancy, who so 
thoroughly eiijoy their revenge as they ex- 
pected. It is one of those lusts which has 
its gout de remrs — “ sweet in the mouth, bitter 
in the belly one of those appetites which 
will allow its victim no rest till it is gratified, 
and no peace afterward. Now, M. Varbarriere 
was in for it, he was already coming under the 
solemn shadow of its responsibilities, and was 
chilled. It involved other people, too, besides 
his proper object — people who, whatever else 
some of them might be, were certainly, as re- 
spected him and his, innocent. Did he quail, 
and seriously think of retiring re infecta f No 
such thing ! It is wonderful how steadfast 
of purpose are the disciples of darkness, and 


GUY DEVERELL. 


97 


how seldom, having put their hands to the 
plough, they look back. 

All this while Guy DevereH, an exile, was 
approaching London with brain, like every 
other, teeming with its own phantasmagoria. 
He knew not what particular danger threat- 
ened Marlowe Manor, which to him was a 
temple tenanted by Beatrix alone, the living 
idol whom he worshiped. He was assured 
that somehow his consent, perhaps coope- 
ration, was needed to render the attack 
effectual, and here would arise his opportu- 
nity, the self-sacrifice which he contemplated 
with positive pleasure, though, of course 
with a certain awe, for futurity was a murky 
vista enough beyond it. 

Varbarriere’s low estimate of young men 
led Mm at once to conclude that this was an 
amorous escopade, a bit of romance about 
that pretty wench. Mademoiselle Beatrix. 
Why not? The fool, fooling according to 
his folly, should not arrest wisdom in her 
march. Varbarriere was resolved to take all 
necessary' steps in his nephew’s name, without 
troubling the young man with a word upon 
tlie subject. He would have judgment and 
execution, and he scoffed at the idea that his 
nephew, Guy, would take measures to have 
him — his kinsman, guardian, and benefactor — 
punished for having acted for his advantage 
without his consent. 

CHAPTER XLVIIL 
m LADY Mary’s boudoir. 

The red sun had faded into darkness as 
M. Varbarriere descended from his carriage 
at the door-steps of Marlowe. The dressing- 
bell had not yet rung. Every one was quite 
well, the solemn butler informed him gra- 
ciously, as if he had kept them in health 
expressly to oblige M. Varbarriere. That 
gentleman’s dark countenance, however, was 
not specially illuminated on the occasion. 
The intelligence he really wanted referred 
to old Lady Alice, to whom the inexcusable 
folly and perfidy of Guy had betrayed his 
name. 

Upon this point he had grown indescri- 
bably uncomfortable as he drew near to the 
house. Had the old woman been conjectur- 
ing and tattling? Had she called in Sir 
Jekyl himself to counsel? How was he, 
Varbarriere, to meet Sir Jekyl? He must 
learn from Lady Alice’s lips how the land 
lay. 

“ And Lady Alice,’’ he murmured with a 
lowering countenance, “ pretty well, I hope ? 
Down-stairs to-day, eh ?” 

The butler had not during his entire visit 
heard the foreign chap ” talk so much Eng- 
lish before. 

“ Lady Halice was well in ’ealth.” 

“ In the drawing-room ?” 

“ Ho, sir, in Lady Mary’s boudoir.” 

“And Sir JekylJ” 

“ In ’is hown ^om, sir.” 

“ Show me to the boudoir, please ; I have 
a word for Lady Alice.” 

7 


A few moments more and he knocked at 
the door of that apartment, and was invited 
to enter with a querulous drawl that re- 
called the association of the wild cat with 
which in an irreverent moment he had once 
connected that august old lady. 

So Varbarriere entered and bowed and 
stood darkly in the door-frame, reminding 
her again of the portrait of a fat and cruel 
burgomaster. “ Oh ! it’s you ? come back 
again. Monsieur Varbarriere? Oh! — I’m 
very glad to see you.” 

“ Very grateful — veryr,- • 

your ladyship, how .are p 

“Pretty well — ailing- ■ . 

licate health and cruelly 
What else can I expect,, s • 

“ I hope your mind has . 

Lady Alice, since I had 
seeing you.” 

“Now, do you really . ' 

possible you can hope thf. 
state in which you left it, 
ute at ease since I saw y . 
have heard something tl 
inexplicable you have 
from me.” 

“ May I ask what it is 
to explain.” 

“ Yes, the name of th 
not Strangways, that v 
name, sir, is Guy Dever 

And saying this La • 
wont, wept passionate!; 

“ That is perfectly ti 
I don’t see what value 
have, apart from the ex 
I promised to tell you 
days. If, however, y| 
postpone the disclosut 
will, I am sure, first be | 
though, whether anyom 
the foolish young man’s! 

“ No ; no one, except 
ture. She was present,] 
request, perfectly silen ' 

Alice, eagerly, and gape 
riere expecting his revel 

M. Varbarriere thoug 
ward circumstances, that a disclosure so im- 
perfect as had been made to Lady Alice was 
a good deal more dangerous than one a little 
fuller. He therefore took that lady’s hand 
very reverentially, and looking with his full 
solemn eyes in her face, said — 

“ It is not only true, madam, that his name 
is Guy Deverell, but equally true that he is 
the lawful son, as well as the namesake, of 
that Guy Deverell, your son, who perished 
by the hand of Sir Jekyl Marlowe in a duel. 
Shot down foully, as that Mr. Strangways 
avers who was his companion, and who was 
present when the fatal event took place.” 

“ Gracious Heaven, sir ! My son married ?” 

“Yes, madam, married more than a year 
before his death. All the proofs are extant, 
and at this moment in England.” 

“ Married ! my boy married, and never 
told his mother 1 Oh, Guy, Guy, Ouy! is 
it creditable?” 

“ It is not a question, madam, but an abso- 


98 


GUY DEYERELL. 


lute certainty, as I will show you whenever 
I get the papers to Wardlock.” 

“And to whom, sir, pray, was my son 
married ?” demanded Lady Alice, after a 
long pause. 

“ To my sister, madam.” 

Lady Alice gaped at him in astonishment. 

“ Was she a person at all his equal in life ? 
— a person of— of any education, I mean ?” 
inquired Lady Alice, with a gasp, sublimely 
unconscious of her impertinence. 

“ As good a lady as you are,” replied Yar- 
barriere, with a swarthy flush upon his fore- 
head. 

“ I should like to Iznow she was a lady^ at 
all events.” 

“ She was a lady, madam, of pure blood, 
incapable of a mean thought, incapable, too, 
of anything low-bred or impertinent.” 

His sarcasm sped through and through 
Lady Alice without producing any effect, as 

bullet passes through a ghost. 

It is a great surprise, sir, but that will 
tisfactory. I suppose you can show it ?” 
rbarriere smiled sardonically and an- 
d nothing. 

son married to a Frenchwoman! 
lear, dear! Married! You can feel 
monsieur, knowing as I do nothing 
person or family with whom he con- 
imself.” 

Alice pressed her lean fingers over 
i;, and swept the wall opposite, with 
yes, sighing at intervals, and gasping 
asly. 

i old woman’s egotism and imperti- 
> did not vex him long or much. But 
retence of being absolutely above irri- 
u from the feminine gender, in any ex- 
. sage, philosopher, or saint, is a despica- 

j affectation. Man and woman were created 
>vith inflexible relations ; each with ^ the 
power in large measure or in infinitesimal 
doses, according to opportunity, to infuse 
the cup of other’s life with sweet or bitter — 
with nectar or with poison. Therefore great 
men and wise men have winced and will 
wince under the insults of small and even of 
old women. 

“A year, you say, before my poor boy’s 
death ?” 

“ Yes, about that ; a little more.” 

“ Mademoiselle Yarbarriere ! H’m,” mused 
Lady Alice. 

“ 1 did not say Yarbarriere was the name,” 
sneered he, with a deep-toned drawl. 

“ Why, you said, sir, did not you, that the 
Frenchwoman he married was your sister ?” 

“ I said the lady who accepted him was 
my sister. I never said her name was Yar- 
barriere, or that she was a Frenchwoman.” 

“ Is not your name Yarbarriere, sir?” ex- 
claimed Lady Alice, opening her eyes very 
wide. 

“ Certainly, madam, A nom de guerre, as 
we say in France, a name which I assumed 
with tlie purchase of an estate, about six 
years ago, when I became what you call a 
naturalised French subject.” 

“ And pray, sir, what is your name ?” 

“ Yarbarriere, madam. I did bear an Eng- 


lish name, being of English birth and family 
May I presume to inquire particular! 
whether you have divulged the name of m’ 
nephew to anyone ?” 

“ No, to no one ; neither has Beatrix, I an 
certain.” 

“ You now know, madam, that the youn^ 
man is your own grandson, and therefon 
entitled to at least as much consideratioi 
from you as from me ; and I again ventur 
to impress upon you this fact, that if prema 
turely his name be disclosed, it may, and in 
deed must embarrass my endeavors to rein 
state him in his rights.” 

As he said this Yarbarriere made a pro 
found and solemn bow ; and before Lad3 
Alice could resume her catechism, that dail 
gentleman had left the room. 

As he emerged from the door he glancec 
down the broad oak stairs, at the foot of 
which he heard voices. They ■were those 
of Sir Jekyl and his daughter. The Baro 
net’s eye detected the dark form on the firsi 
platform above him. 

“ Ha ! lilonsieur Yarbarriere — very wel 
come, monsieur — when did you arrive ?’ 
cried the host in his accustomed French. 

“ Ten minutes ago.” 

“ Quite well, I hope.” 

“ Perfectly ; many thanks — and Mademoi- 
selle Beatrix ?” 

The large and sombre figure was descend- 
ing the stairs all this time, and an awful 
shadow as he did so, seemed to overcast the 
face and form of the young lady to whom, 
with a dark smile, he extended his hand. 

“ Quite well, Beatrix, too — all quite well 
— even Lady Alice in her usual health,” said 
Sir Jekyl. 

“ Better — I’m glad to hear,” said Yarbar- 
riere. 

“ Better ! Oh dear, no — that would never 
do. But her temper is just as lively, and all 
her ailments flourishing. By-the-bye, your 
nephew had to leave us suddenly.” 

“Yes — business,” said Yarbarriere, inter- 
rupting. 

Beatrix, he was glad to observe, had gone 
away to the drawing-room. 

“ lie’ll be back, I hope, immediately ?” 
continued the Baronet. “ He’s a fine yoimg 
fellow. Egad, he’s about as good-looking 
a young fellow as I know. I should be 
devilish proud of him if I were you. When 
does he come back to us ?” 

“ Immediately, I hope ; business, you know ; 
but nothing very long. We are both, I fear, 
a very tedious pair of guests ; but you have 
been so pressing, so hospitable” 

“ Say rather, so selfish, monsieur,” an- 
swered Sir Jekyl, laughing. “Our whist 
and cigars have languished ever since you 
left.” 

M. Yarbarriere laughed a double - bass 
accompaniment to the Baronet’s chuckle, and 
the dressing-bell ringing at that moment. Sir 
Jekyl and he parted agreeably. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE GUESTS TOGETHER. 

Yarbarriere marched slowly up, and en- 


GUY DEVERELL. 


99 


tered his dressing-room with a “ glooming ” 
countenance and a heavy heart. Everything 
looked as if he had left it but half an hour 
ago. He poked the fire and sat down. 

He felt like a surgeon with an operation 
before him. There was a loathing of it, but 
he did not fiinch. 

Reader, you think you understand other 
men. Do you understand yourself? Did 
you ever quite succeed in defining your own 
motives, and arriving at the moral base of 
any action you ever did ? Here was Varbar- 
riere sailing with wind and tide full in his 
favour, right into the haven where he would 
be — yet to look in his face you would have 
said “ there is a sorrowful man,” and had 
you been able to see within, you would have 
said, “ there is a man divided against himself.” 
Yes, as every man is. Several spirits, quite 
distinct, not blending, but pleading and bat- 
tling very earnestly on opposite sides, all in 
possession of the “ house ”-7-but one dominant 
always with a disputed sway, but always car- 
rying his point — always the prosperous bully. 

Yes, every man is a twist of many strands. 
Varbarriere was compacted of several Var- 
barrieres — one of whom was the stronger 
and the most infernal. His feebler associates 
commented upon him — despised him — feared 
him — sought to restrain him, but knew they 
could not. He tyrannized, and was to the 
outer world the one and indivisible Varbar- 
riere. 

Monsieur Varbarriere the tyrant was about 
to bring about a fracas that night, against 
which the feebler aud better Varbarrieres 
protested. Varbarriere the tyrant held the 
knife over the throat of a faithless woman — 
the better Varbarriere’s murmured words of 
pity and of faint remomstance. Varbarriere 
the t3'’rant scrupled not to play the part of 
spy and traitor for his ends ; the nobler Var- 
barrieres upbraided him sadly, and even de- 
spised him. But what were these feeble 
angelic Varbarrieres ? The ruler is the state, 
Vetat Sest moi! and Varbarriere the tyrant 
carried all before him. 

As the dark and somewhat corpulent gen- 
tleman before the glass adjusted his neck- tie 
and viewed his shirt-studs, he saw in his 
countenance, along with the terrible resolu- 
tion of that tyrant, the sorrows and fears of 
the less potent spirits ; and he felt though he 
would not accept their upbraidings and their 
truth ; so with a stern and heavy heart he 
descended to the drawing-room. 

He found the party pretty nearly as- 
sembled, and the usual buzz and animation 
prevailing, and he smiled and swayed from 
group to group, and from one chair to an- 
other. 

Doocey was glad, monstrous glad to see 
him. 

“ I had no idea how hard it was to find a 
good player, until you left us — our whist has 
been totally ruined. The first night we tried 
Linnett; he thinks he plays, you know; 
well, I do assure you, you never witnessed 
such a thing— such a caricature.^ by Jupiter — 
forgetting your lead — revoking — everylhing^ 
by Jove. You may guess what a chance we 


had— wy partner, I give you my honor, 
against old Sir Paul Blunket, as dogged a 
player as there is in England, egad, and Sir 
Jekyl there. We tried Drayton next night 
— the most conceited fellow on earth, and no 
head — Sir Paul had him. I never saw an 
old fellow so savage. Egad, they were call- 
ing one another names across the table- 
you’d have died laughing ; but we’ll have 
some play now you’ve come back, and I’m 
very glad of it.” 

Varbarriere, while he listened to all this, 
smiling his fat dark smile, and shrugging and 
bowing slightly as the tale required these 
evidences, was quietly making his observa- 
tions on two or three of the persons who 
most interested him. Beatrix, he thought, 
was looking ill — certainly much paler, and 
though very pretty, rather sad— that is, she 
was ever and anon falling into little abstrac- 
tions, an^ when spoken to, waking up with 
a sudden little smile. 

Lady Jane Lennox — she did not seem to 
observe him — was seated like a sultana on a 
low cushioned seat, with her rich silks cir- 
cling grandly round her. He looked at her 
a little stealthily and curiously, as men eye a 
prisoner who is about to suffer execution. 
His countenance during that brief glance 
was unobserved, but you might have read 
there something sinister and cruel. 

“ I forget — had the Bishop come when you 
left us?” said Sir Jekyl, laying his hand 
lightly from behind on the arm of Varbar- 
riere. The dark-featured man winced — Sir 
Jekyl’s voice sounded unpleasantly in his 
reverie. 

“Ah! Oh! The Bishop? Yes — the 
Bishop was here when I left ; he had been 
here a day or two,” answered Varbarriere, 
with a kind of effort. 

“ Then I need not introduce you — ^you’re 
friends already,” said Sir Jekyl. 

At which moment the assembled party 
learned that dinner awaited them, and the 
murmured arrangements for the procession 
commenced, and the drawing-room was left 
to the click of the Louis Quatorze clock and 
the sadness of solitude. 

“We had such a dispute. Monsieur Var- 
barriere, while you were away,” said Miss 
Blunket. 

“ About me, I hope,” answered the gentle- 
man addressed, in tolerable English, and 
with a gallant jocularity. 

“ Well, no — not about you,” said old Miss 
Blunket, timidly. “ But*! so wished for you 
to take part in the argument.” 

“ And why wish tor me ?” answered the 
sardonic old fellow, amused, maybe the least 
bit in the world fiattered. 

“ Well, I think you have the power, Mon- 
sieur Varbarriere, of putting a great deal in 
very few words — I mean of making an argu- 
ment so clear and short.” 

Varbarriere laughed indulgently, and be- 
gan to think Miss Blunket a rather intelligent 
person. 

“ And what was the subject, pray ?” 

“ Whether life was happier in town or 
country.” 


100 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Oh ! the old debate — country mouse 
against town mouse,” replied Yarbarriere. 

“ Ah, just so-so true— I don’t think any- 
one said that, and — and — I do wish to know 
which side you would have taken.” 

“ The condition being that it should be all 
country or all town, of course, and that we 
were to retain our incomes 

“ Yes, certainly,” said Miss Blunket, await- 
ing his verdict with a little bit of bread sus- 
pended between her forefinger and thumb. 

“ Well, then, I should pronounce at once 
for the country,” said Yarbarriere. 

“ I’m so glad — that’s just what I said. 
I’m sure, said I, I should have Monsieur Yar- 
barriere on my side if he were here. I’m so 
glad I was right. Did not you hear me say 
that ?” said she, addressing Lady Jane Len- 
nox, whose steady look, obliquely from 
across the table a little higher up, disconcert- 
ed her. 

Lady Jane was not thinking of the debate, 
and asked in her quiet haughty way — 

“ What is it ?” 

“ Did I not say, yesterday, that Monsieur 
Yarbarriere would vote for the country, in 
our town or countiy argument, if he were 
here ?” 

“ Oh ! did you ? Yes, I believe you did. 
I was not listening.” 

“ And which side, pray. Lady Jane, would 
you have taken in that ancient debate ?” in- 
quired Yarbarriere, who somehow felt con- 
strained to address her. 

“ Neither side,” answered she. 

“What! neither town nor country — and 
how then?” inquired Yarbarriere, with a 
shrug and a smile. 

“ I think there is as much hypocrisy and 
slander in one as the other, and I should 
have a new way — people living like the Chi- 
nese, in boats, and never going on shore.” 

Yarbarriere laughed — twiddled a bit of 
bread between his finger and thumb, and 
leaned back, and looked down, still smiling, 
by the edge of his plate ; and was there not 
a little flush under the dark brown tint of his 
face? 

“ That would be simply prison,” ejaculated 
Miss Blunket. 

“Yes, prison; and is not anything bet- 
ter than liberty with its liabilities? Why 
did Lady Hester Stanhope go into exile in 
the East, and why do sane men and worden 
go into monasteries ?” 

Yarbarriere looked at her with an odd 
kind of interest, and sighed without knowing 
it ; and he helped himself curiously to sweet- 
bread, a minute later, and for a time his 
share in the conversation flagged. 

Lady Jane, he thought, was looking de- 
cidedly better than when he left — very well, 
in fact — very well indeed — not at all like a 
person with anything pressing heavily on her 
mind. 

He glanced at her again. She was talking 
to old Sir Paul Bluiil^et in a bold careless 
way, which showed no sign of hidden care 
or fear. 

“ Have you been to town since ?” inquired 
Sir Jekyl, who happened to catch Yarbar- 


riere’s eye at that moment, and availed him- 
self of a momentary lull in what we term the 
conversation, to put his question. 

“ No ; you think I have been pleasuring, 
but it was good honest business I assure you.” 

“ Lady Alice here fancied you might have 
seen the General, and learned something 
about his plans,” continued Bir Jekyl. 

“ What General ? — Lennox — eh ?” in- 
quired Yarbarriere. 

“Yes. What’s your question. Lady 
Alice ?” said the Baronet, turning to that 
lady, and happily not observing an odd ex- 
pression in Yarbarriere’s countenance. 

“ No question ; he has not been to London,” 
answered the old lady, drawing her shawl 
which she chose to dine in about her, 
chillily. 

“ Is it anything 1 can answer ?” threw in 
Lady Jane, who, superbly tranquil as she 
looked, would have liked to pull and box 
Lady Alice’s ears at that moment. 

“ Oh no, I fancy not ; it’s only the old 
question, when are we to see the General ; 
is he coming back at all ?” 

“ I wish anyone could help me to an 
answer,” laughed Lady Jane, with a slight 
uneasiness, which might have been referred 
to the pique which would not have been un- 
natural in a handsome wife neglected. 

“I begin to fear I shall leave Marlowe 
without having seen him,” said Lady Alice, 
peevishly. 

“Yes, and it is not complimentary, you 
know ; he disappeared just the day before 
you came, and he won’t come back till you 
leave ; men are such mysterious fellows, 
don’t you think?” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ It doesn’t look as if he liked her com- 
pany. Did he ever meet you. Lady Alice ?” 
inquired Sir Paul Blunket in his bluff way, 
without at all intending to be uncivil. 

“ That^ you think, would account for it ; 
much obliged to you Sir Paul,” said Lad}^ 
Alice, sharply. 

Sir Paul did not see it, or what she was 
driving at, and looked at her therefore with 
a grave curiosity, for he did not perceive 
that she was offended. 

“ Sir Paul has a way of hitting people 
very hard, has not he. Lady Alice? and 
then leaving them to recover of themselves,” 
said Sir Jekyl. 

“There’s not a great deal of civility 
wasted among you,” observed Lady Alice. 

“ I only meant,” said Sir Paul, who felt 
that he should place himself right, “that I 
could not see why General Lennox should 
avoid Lady Alice, unless he was acquainted 
vnth her. There’s nothing in that.’’ 

“ By-the-by, Lady Alice,’^ said Sir Jekyl, 
who apprehended a possible scene from that 
lady’s temper, and like a good shepherd 
wished to see his flock pasture peaceably to- 
gether— “ I find I can let you have any 
quantity you like of that plant you admired 
yesterday. I forget its name, and the Bishop 
says he has got one at the Palace with a 
scarlet blossom ; so, perhaps, if you make 
interest with him — what do you say, my 
lord?” 


101 


GUY DEVERELL. 


So having engaged the good Bishop in 
floral conversation'Vith that fiery spirit, the 
Baronet asked Sir Paul whther he believed 
all that was said about the great American 
cow ; and what he thought of the monster 
parsnip : 'and thus he set him and Lady 
Alice ambling on different tracts, so that 
there was no risk of their breaking lances 
again. ^ 


CHAPTER L. 

A VISITOR m THE LIBRARY. 

The company w^ere now pecking at those 
fruits over which Sir Jekyl was wont to 
chuckle grimly, making pleasant satire on 
his gardener, vowing he kept an Aladdin’s 
garden, and that his greengages were eme- 
ralds, and his gooseberries rubies. 

In the midst of the talk, the grave and 
somewhat corpulent butler stood behind his 
master’s chair, and murmured something 
mildly in his ear. 

“ What’s his name ?” inquired Sir Jekyl. 

“ Pullet, please, sir.” 

“Pullet! I never heard of him. If he 
had come a little earlier with a knife and 
fork in his back, we’d have given a good 
account of him.” 

His jokes were chuckled to Lady Alice, 
who received them drowsily. 

“ Where have you put him ?” 

“ In the library, please, sir.” 

“ What kind of looking person ?” 

“ A middlish sort of a person, rayther re- 
spectable, I should say, sir ; but dusty from 
his journey.” 

“ Well, giye him some wine, and let him 
have dinner, if he has not had it before, and 
bring in his card just now.” 

All this occurred without exciting atten- 
tion or withdrawing Sir Jekyl from any 
sustained conversation, for he and Lady 
Alice had been left high and dry on the bank 
together by the flow and ebb of talk, which 
at this moment kept the room in a rattle ; 
and Sir Jekyl only now and then troubled 
her with a word. 

“ Pullet !” thought Sir Jekyl, he knew not 
why, uneasily. “ Who the devil’s Pullet, 
and what the plague can Pullet want ? It 
can’t be Paulett — can it? There’s nothing 
on earth Paulett can want of me, and he 
would not come at this hour. Pullet — 
Pullet — let us see.” But he could not see, 
there was not a soul he knew who bore that 
name. • 

“ He’s eating his dinner, sir, the gentleman, 
sir, in the small parlor, and says you’ll know 
him, quite well sir, when you see him,” mur- 
mured the butler, “ and more ” 

“ Have you got his card ?” 

“ He said, sir, please, it would be time 
enough when he had heat his dinner.” 

“ Well, so it will.” 

And Sir Jekyl drank a glass of claret, and 
returned to his ruminations. 

*• So, I shall know Pullet quite well wdien 
I see him,” mused the Baronet, “ and he’ll 
let me have his card when he has had his 


I dinner — a cool gentleman, whatever else he 
may be.” About this Pullet, however, Sir 
Jekyl experienced a most uncomfortable sus- 
pense and curiosity. A bird of ill omen he 
seemed to him — an angel of sorrow, he knew 
not why, in a mask. 

While the Baronet sipped his claret, and 
walked quite alone in the midst of his com- 
pany, picking his anxious steps, and hearing 
strange sounds through his valley of the 
shadow of death, the promiscuous assem- 
blage of ladies and gentlemen dissolved itself. 
The fair sex rose, after their wont, smiled 
their last on the sable file of gentlemen, who 
stood politely, napkin in hand, simpering 
over the back of their chairs, and some of 
them majestically alone, others sliding their 
hands affectionately within the other’s arms, 
glided through the door in celestial proces- 
sion. 

“ I shall leave you to-morrow. Sir Jekyl,” 
began the bishop, gravely, changing his seat 
to one just vacated beside his host, and 
bringing with him his principal chattels, his 
wine-glasses and napkins. 

“ I do hope, my lord, you’ll reconsider 
that,” interrupted Sir Jekyl, laying his 
fingers kindly on the prelate’s purple sleeve. 
A dismal cloud in Sir Jekyl’s atmosphere 
was just then drifting over him, and he 
clung, as men do under such shadows, to the 
contact of good and early friendship. 

“ I am, I assure you, very sorry, and have 
enjoyed your hospitality much — very much ; 
but we can’t rest long you know : we hold a 
good many strings, and matters won’t wait 
our convenience.” 

“ I’m only afraid you are overworked ; but, 
of course, I understand how you feel, and 
shan’t press,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ And I was looking for you to-day in the 
library,” resumed the Bishop, “ anxious for 
a few minutes, on a subject I glanced at 
when I arrived.” 

“ I — I Jcnow^^^ said Sir Jekyl, a little hesita- 
tingly. 

“ Yes, the dying wish of poor Sir Harry 
Marlowe, your father,” murmured the Bishop, 
looking into his claret-glass, which he slowly 
turned about by the stem ; and to do him 
justice, there was not a quarter of a glassful 
remaining in the bottom. 

“ I know — to be sure. I quite agree with 
your lordship’s view. I wish to tell you that 
—quite, I assure you. I don’t — I really don’t 
at all understand his reasons; but, as you 
say, it is a case for implicit submission. I 
intend, I assure you, actually to take down 
that room during the spring. It is of no real 
use, and rather spoils the house.” 

“ I am happy, my dear Sir Jekyl, to hear 
you speak with so much decision bn the sub- 
ject— truly happy and the venerable pre- 
late laid his hand with a gentle dignity on 
the cuff of Sir Jekyl’ s dress-coat, after the 
manner of a miniature benediction. “ I may 
then discharge that quite from my mind ?” 

“ Certainly — quite, my lord. I accept 
your views implicitly.” 

“ And the box — the other wish — you 
know,” murmured the Bishop. 


103 


GUY DEYERELL. 


“ I must honestly say, I can’t the least un- 
derstand what can have been in my poor 
father’s mind when he told me to — to do 
what was right with it — was not that it? 
For I do assure you, for the life of me, 1 
can’t think of anything to he done with it, but 
let it alone. I pledge you my honor, how- 
ever, if ever I get the least inkling of his 
meaning, I will respect it as implicitly as the 
other.” 

“ Now, now, that’s exactly what I wish. 
I’m perfectly satisfied you’ll do what’s right.” 

And as he spoke the Bishop’s countenance 
brightened, and he drank slowly, looking up 
tow^ard the ceiling, that quarter of a glass 
of claret on which he had gazed for so long 
in the bottom of the crystal chalice. 

Just then the butler once more inclined 
his head from the back of Sir Jekyl’s chair, 
and presented a card to his master on the 
little salver at his left side. It bore the in- 
scription, “ Mr. Pelter, Camelia Yilla,” and 
across this, perpendicularly, after the manner 
of a joint “acceptance” of the firm, was 
written — “ Pelter and Crowe, Chambers, Lin- 
coln’s Inn Fields,” in bold black pencilled 
lines. 

“ Why did you not tell me that before ?” 
whispered the Baronet, tartly, half rising, 
with the card in his hand. 

“ I was not haware, Sir Jekyl. The gen- 
tleman said his name exactly like Pullet.” 

“ In the library ! Well— tell him I’m 
coming,” said Sir Jekyl ; and his heart sank, 
he knew not why. 

“ Beg your pardon, my lord, for a moment 
— my man o? business, all the way from 
London, and I fancy in a hurr 3 ^ I shall get 
rid of him with a word or two — you’ll excuse 
me ? Dives, will you oblige me — take my 
place for a moment, and see that the bottle 
does not stop ; or, Doocey, will you ? — Dives 
is doing duty at the foot.” 

Doocey had hopes that the consultation 
with the butler portended a bottle of that 
w^onderful Constantia which he had so ap- 
proved two days before, and took his tempo- 
rary seat hopefully. 

Sir Jekyl, with a general apology, and a 
smile, glided away without fuss, and the 
talk went on much as before. 

When the parlor-door shut behind Sir 
Jekyl, his face darkened. “ I know it’s some 
stupid thing,” he thought, as he walked 
down the gallery with rapid steps, toward 
the study, the sharp air agitating, as he did 
so, his snowy necktie and glossy curls. 

“ How dYe do, Mr. Pelter ? very happy to 
see you. I hadn’t a notion it was you — the 
stupid fellow gave me quite another name. 
Quite well, I hope ?” 

“ Quite well. Sir Jekyl, I thank you— a — 
quite well, said the attorney, a stoutish, 
short, wealth 3 "-looking man, with a massive 
gold chain, a resolute countenance, and a 
bullet-head, with close-cut, greyish hair. 

Pelter was, indeed, an able, pushing fellow, 
without Latin or even English grammar, 
having risen in the office from a small clerk- 
ship, and, perhaps, was more useful than his 
gentlemanlike partner. 


“ Well— a — well, and what has brought 
you down here ? Yery glad to see you, you 
know ; but you would not run down for fun, 
I’m afraid,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ Au — no— au, well, Sir Jekyl, it has turned 
out, Sir — by gad, sir I believe them fellows 
are in England, after all !” 

“ What do you mean by them fellows ?” 
said Sir J ekyl, with a very dark look, uncon- 
sciously repeating the attorney’s faulty 
grammar. 

“ Strangways and Deverell, you know — I 
mean them— Herbert Strangways, and a 
young man named Deverell — they’re in Eng- 
land, I’ve been informed, very private — and 
Strangways has been with Smith, Rumsey 
and Snagg— the office — you know ; and there 
is something on the stocks there.” 

As the attorney delivered this piece of in- 
telligence he kept his eye shrewdly on Sir 
Jekyl, rather screwed and wrinkled, as a man 
looks against a storm. 

“ Oh ! — is that all ? there’s nothing very 

alarming, is there, in that ? — though, d 

me, I don’t see Mr. Pelter, how you reconcile 
your present statement with what you and 
your partner wrote to me twice within the 
last few weeks.” 

“ Yery true. Sir Jekyl ; perfectly true, sir. 
Our information misled us totally ; they 
have been devilish sharp, sir — devilish sly. 
We never were misled before about that 
fellow’s movements — not that they were ever 
of any real importance.” 

“ And why do you think them — but may, 
be you don’t — of more consequence now ?” 

Pelter looked unpleasantly important, and 
shook his head.” 

“ What i&Jt — I suppose I may know said 
Sir Jekyl. 

“ It looks queerish. Sir Jekyl, there’s no 
denying that, in fact, very queerish indeed, 
both me and my partner think so. You re- 
collect the deed.” 

“ No — devil a deed — d them all ! — I 

don’t remember one of them. W'hy, you 
seem to forget it’s nearly ten years ago,” in- 
terrupted the Baronet. 

“ Ah ! — no — not ten — the copy of the deed 
that we got hold of, pretending to be a mar- 
riage settlement. It was brought us, you 
know, in a very odd way, but quite fair.” 

“ Yes, I do remember — yes, to be sure — 
that thing you thought was a forgery, and 
put in our way to frighten us. W ell, and do 
you fancy that’s a genuine thing now ?” 

“ I always thought it might— I think it 
may — in fact, I think it is. We have got a 
hint they rely on it. And here’s a point to be 
noted : the deed fixes five- and -twenty as the 
period of his majority ; and just as he attains 
that age, his father being nearly that time 
dead, "they put their shoulders to the 
wheel.” 

“ Put their d d numbskulls under it, 

you mean. How can they move, how can 
they stir ? I’d like to know how they can 
my title. I don’t care a curse about them. 
What the plague’s frightening you and Crowe 
now. I’m blest if I don’t think you’re grow- 
ing old. Why can’t you stick to your own 


GUY DEVERELL. 


view ? — you say one thing one day and an- 
other the next. Egad, there’s no knowing 
Where to have you.” 

The Baronet was talking bitterly, scorn- 
fully, and with all proper contempt of his ad- 
versaries, but there’s no denying he looked 
very pale. 

“ And there certainly is activity there ; 
cases have been with counsel on behalf of 
Guy Deverell, the son and heir of the de- 
ceased,” pursued Mr. Pelter with his hands in 
his pockets, looking grimly up into the Bar- 
onet’s face. 

“Won’t you sit down?— do sit down, 
Pelter ; and you haven’t had wine !” said Sir 
Jekyl. 

“Thanks— Pve had some sherry.” 

^ “ W ell, you must have some claret. I’d 
like a glass myself.” 

He had rung the bell, and a servant ap- 
peared. 

“ Get claret and glasses for two.” 

The servant vanished deferentially. 

“ I’m not blaming 3^ou, mind ; but is it not 
odd we should have known nothing of this 
son, and this pretended marriage till now !” 

“ Odd ! oh dear, no ! you don’t often 
know half so much of the case at the other 
side, nothing at all often till it’s on the file.” 

“ Precious satisfactory !” sneered Sir Jekyl. 

“ When we beat old Lord Levesham, in 
Blount and Levesham, they had not a notion,- 
no more than the man in the moon, what we 
were going on, till we produced the release, 
and got a direction, egad.” And the attorney 
laughed over that favorite recollection. 


CHAPTER LI. 

PELTER OPENS HIS MIND. 

“ Take a glass of claret. This is ’34- 
Maybe you’d like some port better ?” 

“No, thanks, this will do very nicely,” 
said the accommodating attorney. “ Thirty- 
four? So it is, egad! and uncommon fine 
too.” 

“ I hope you can give me a day or tivo — 
not business of course — I mean by way of 
holiday,” said Sir Jekyl. “ A little country 
air will do you a world of good — set you up 
for the term.” 

Mr. Pelter smiled, and shook his head 
shrewdly. 

“ Quite out of the question, Sir Jekyl, I 
thank you all the same — business tumbling 
in too fast just now — I daren’t stay away 
another day— no, no — ha, ha, ha ! no rest 
for us, sir — no rest for the wicked. But 
this thing, you know, looks rather queerish, 
we thought — a little bit urgent : the other 
party has been so , sly ; and no want of 
mon'ey, sir — the sinews of war — lots of tin 
there.” 

“ Yes, of course ; and lots of tin here, too. 
I fancy fellows don’t like to waste money 
only to hold their own; but egad, if it 
comes to be a pull at the long purse, all the 
worse for them,” threw in the Baronet. 


103 

“And their intending, you know, to set 
up this marriage,” continued the attorney 
without minding ; “ and that Hubert Strang- 
ways being over here with the young pre- 
tender as we call him, under his wing ; and 
StJ-angways is a deuced clever fellow, and 
takes devilish sound view of a case when 
he lays his mind to it. It was he that re- 
opened that great bankruptcy case of 
Onslow and Grawley, you remember.” 

Sir Jekyl assented, but did not remember. 

“ And a devilish able bit of chess-play that 
was on both sides — no end of concealed 
property — brought nearly sixty thousand 
pounds into the fund, egad! The creditors 
passed a vote, you remember — spoke very 
handsomely of him. Monstrous able fellow, 
egad !” 

“ A monstrous able fellow he’ll be if he 
gets my property, egad ! It seems to me you 
Pelter and Crowe are half in love with him,” 
said Sir Jekyl, flushed and peevish. 

“ We’ll hit him a hard knock or two yet, 
for all that — ha, ha ! — or I’m mistaken,” re- 
joined old Mr. Pelter. 

“ Do you know him ?” inquired Sir Jekyl ; 
and the servant at the same time appearing 
in answer to his previous summons, he 
said — 

“Go to the parlor and tell Mr. Doocey 
—you know quietly— I am detained by 
business, but that we’ll join them in a little 
time in the drawing-room.” 

So the servant with a reverence, departed. 

“ I say, do you?” 

“Just a little. Seven years ago, when I 
, was at Havre, he was stopping there too. 
A very gentlemanlike man — sat beside him 
twice at the table d’hote. I could see he 
knew d — d well who I was — wude awake, 
very agreeable man, very — wonderful well- 
informed. Wonderful ups and dowms that 
fellow’s had — clever fellow — ha, ha, ha !- I 
mentioned you. Sir Jekyl ; I wanted to hear 
if he’d say anything fishing, hey? Old 
file, you know,” and the attorney winked 
and grinned agreeably at Sir Jekyl. “ Capital 
claret this, cap-i-tal, by Jupiter! It came 
in natural enough. We were talking of 
England, you see. He was asking questions ; 
and so, talking of country gentlemen, and 
county influence, and parliamentary life, 
you know, I brought in you^ and asked him 
if he knew Sir Jekyl Marlow.” Another 
wink and a grin here. “ I asked, a bit sud- 
denly, you know, to see how he’d take it. 
Did not show, egad ! more than that decanter 
— ha, ha, ha ! devilish cool dog, mon- 
strous clever fellow, not a bit ; and he said 
he did not know you, had not that honor ; 
but he knew a great deal of you, and he 
spoke very handsomely, upon m}'- honor 
quite au, au, handsomely of you, he did.” 

“ Vastly obliged to him,” said Sir Jekyl ; 
but though he sneered I think he was pleased. 

“ You don’t recollect what he said, I dare 
say ?” 

“ Well, I Q 2 imiot exactly.” 

“ Did he mention any unpleasantness ever 
between us ?” continued Sir Jekyl. 

“ Yes, he said there had, and that he was 


104 


GUY DEYERELL. 


afraid Sir Jekyl might not remember his 
name with satisfaction ; but he, for his part, 
liked to forget and forgive — that kind of 
thing, you k^now, and young fellows being 
too hot-headed, you know. I really — I 
don’t think he bears you personally any ill- 
will.” 

“ There has certainly been time enough for 
his anger to cool a little, and I really, for my 
part, never felt anything of the kind towards 
him ; 1 can honestly say that^ and I dare say 
he knows it. I merely want to protect my- 
self against — against madmen, egad !” said 
Sir Jekyl. 

“ I think that copy of a marriage settle- 
ment you showed me had no names in it,” 
he resumed. 

“ No, the case is all put like a moot point, 
not a name in it. It’s all nonsense, too, be- 
cause every man in my profession knows a 
copying clerk never has a notion of the 
meaning of anything — letter, deed, pleading 
— nothing he copies — not an iota, by Jove !” 

“ Finish the bottle ; you must not send it 
away,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ Thanks, I’m doing very nicely ; and now 
as they may open tire suddenly, I want to 
know ” — here the attorney’s eyes glanced at 
the door, and his voice dropped a little — 
“ any information of a confidential sort that 
may guide us in — in ” 

“ Why, I fancy it’s all confidential, is’nt 
it?” answered Sir Jekyl. 

“ Certainly— but aw — but — I meant — you 
know — there was aw — a — there was a talk, 
you know about a deed. Eh ?” 

“ I— I — yes^ I’ve heard — I know what you 
mean,” answered Sir Jekyl, pouring a little 
claret into his glass. “ They — those fellows 
— they lost a deed, and they were d — d im- 
pertinent about it ; they wanted — you know 
it’s a long time ago — to try and slur my poor 
father about it — I don’t know exactly how, 
only, I think, there would have been an ac- 
tion for slander very likely about it, if it had 
not stopped of itself.” 

Sir Jekyl sipped his claret. 

“ I shan’t start‘ till three o’clock train to- 
morrow, if you have anything to say to me,” 
said the attorney, looking darkly and expect- 
ingly in Sir Jekyl’ s face. 

“Yes, I’ll think over everything. I’d like 
to have a good talk with you in the morning. 
You sleep here, you know, of course.” 

“Very kind. I hope I shan’t be in your 
way. Sir Jekyl. Very happy.” 

Sir Jekyl rang the bell. 

“ I shan’t let you off to-morrow, unless you 
really can’t help it,” he said ; and, the servant 
entering, “ Tell Mrs. Sinnot that Mr. Pelter 
remains here to-night, and would wish — do 
you?--to run up to your room. Where’s 
your luggage ?” 

“ Precious light luggage it is. I left it at 
the hotel in the town — a small valise, and 
a” 

“ Get it up here, do you mind, and let us 
know when Mr. Pelter’s room is ready.” 

“ Don’t be long about dressing ; we must 
join the ladies, you know, in the drawing- 
room. I wish Pelter, there was no such 


thing as business ; and that all attorneys, ex- 
cept you and Crowe, of course, were treated 
in this and the next world according to their 
deserts,” an ambiguous compliment at which 
Pelter nodded slyly, with his. hands in his 
pockets. 

“You’ll have to get us all the information 
you can scrape together. Sir Jekyl. You see 
they may have evidence of that deed — I mean 
the lost one, you know — and proving a mar- 
riage and the young gentleman legitimate. 
It may be a serious case — upon my word a 
mry^ serious case — do you see? And term 
begins, you know, immediately, so there 
really is no time to lose, and there’s no harm, 
in being ready.” 

“ I’ll have a long talk with you about it in 
the morning, and I am devilish glad you 
came — curse the whole thing !” 

The servant hei’e came to say that Mr. 
Pelter’s room was ready, and his luggage 
sent for to the town. 

“ Come up, then — we’ll look at your 
room.” 

So up they went, and Pelter declared him- 
self charmed. 

“ Come to my room, Mr. Pelter — it’s a long 
way off, and a confoundedly shabby crib; 
but I’ve got some very good cigars there,” 
said Sir Jekyl, who was restless, and wished 
to hear the attorney more fully on this hated 
business. 


CHAPTER LII. 

THE PIPE OF PEACE. 

Sir Jekyl marched Mr. Pelter down the 
great stair again, intending to make the long 
journey rearward. As they reached the foot 
of the stairs, Monsieur Varbarriere, candle in 
hand, was approaching it on the way to his 
room. He was walking leisurely, as large 
men do after dinner, and was still some way 
off. 

“ By Jove ! Why did you not tell me ?” 
exclaimed the attorney, stopping short. “ By 
the law ! you’ve got him here.” 

“ Monsieur Varbarriere ?” said the Baronet. 

“ Mr. Strangways, that's he.” 

“ That Strangways !” echoed the Baronet. 

“ Herbert Strangways,” whispered Mr. 
Pelter, and by this time M. Varbarriere was 
under the rich oak archway, and stopped, 
smiling darkly, and bowing a little to the 
Baronet, who was for a moment surprised 
into silence. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Strangways, sir ?” 
said the attorney, advancing with a shrewd 
resolute smile, and extending his hand. 

M. Varbarriere, without the slightest em- 
barrasment, took it, bowing with a courtly 
gravity. 

“ Ah, Monsieur Pelter ?— yes, indeed— very 
happy to meet you again.” 

“ Yes, sir— very happy, Mr. Strangways ; 
so am I. Did not know you were in this 
part of the world, Mr. Strangways, sir. 
You remember Havre, sir ?” 

“ Perfectly — ^yes. You did not know me 


GUY DEYERELL 


by the name of Yarbarriere, which name I 
adopted on purchasing the Yarbarriere 
estates shortly after I met you at Havre, on 
becoming a naturalised subject of France.” 

“ Wonderful little changed, Monsieur Bar- 
varrian— flxt, sir — a little stouter — in good 
case, Mr. Strangways; but six years, you 
know^ sir, does not count for nothing — ha, ha, 
ha !” 

“ You have the goodness to flatter me, I 
fear,” answered Yarbarriere, with a smile 
somewhat contemptuous, and in his deep 
tones of banter. 

“ This is my friend, Mr. Strangways, if 
he’ll allow me to call him so— Mr. Herbert 
Strangways, Sir Jekyl,” said the polite attor- 
ney, presenting his own guest to the Baronet. 

“And so, Monsieur Yarbarriere, I find I 
have an additional reason to rejoice in having 
made 3/ our acquaintance, inasmuch as it 
revives a very old one, so old that I almost 
fear you may have forgotten it. You re- 
member our poor friend, Guy Deverell, 
and ” 

“ Perfectly, Sir Jekyl, and I was often 
tempted to ask you the same question ; but 
— but you Imow there’s a melancholy — and 
we were so very happy here, I had not cour- 
age to invite the sadness of the retrospect, 
though a very remote one. I believe I was 
right. Sir Jekyl. Life’s true philosophy is to 
extract from the present all it can yield of 
happiness, and to bury our dead out of our 
sight.” 

“I dare say — I’m much of that way of 
thinking myself. And — dear me ! — I — I sup- 
pose I’m very much altered.” He was look- 
ing at Yarbarriere, and trying to recover' in 
the heavy frame and ponderous features be- 
fore him the image of that Herbert Strang- 
ways whom, in the days of his early coxcom- 
bry, he had treated with a becoming imper- 
tinence. 

“ Ho — ^you’re wonderfully little changed — 
I say honestly — quite wonderfully like what 
I remember you. And I — I know what a 
transformation I am — perfectly,” said Yar- 
barriere. 

And he stood before Sir Jekyl, as he would 
display a portrait, full front — Sir Jekyl held a 
silver candlestick in his hand. Monsieur Yar- 
parriere his in his — and they stood face to 
face — in a dream of the past. 

Yarbarriere’ s mystic smile expanded to a 
grin, and the grin broke into a laugh — deep 
and loud — not insulting — not sneering. 

In that explosion of sonorous and e'^nigmat- 
ic merriment Sir Jekyl joined — perhaps a lit- 
tle hesitatingly and coldly, for he was trying, 
I think, to read the riddle — wishing to be 
quite sure that he might be pleased, and ac- 
cept these vibrations as sounds of reconcilia- 
tion. 

There was nothing quite to forbid it. 

“ I see,” said Monsieur Yarbarriere, in tones 
still disturbed by laughter, “ in spite of your 
politeness, Sir Jekyl, what sort of impression 
my metamorphosis produces. Where is the 
raw-boned youth — so tall and gawky, that, 
egad ! London bucks were ashamed to ac- 
knowledge him in the street, and when they 


105 

did speak could not forbear breaking his 
gawky bones with their jokes ? ha, ha, ha ! 
How, lo ! here he stands — the grand old 
black swine, on hind legs — hog-backecl — and 
with mighty paunch and face all draped in 
fat. Bah ! ha, ha, ha ! What a magician is 
Father Time ! Look and laugh, sir — you 
cannot laugh more than I.” 

“ I laugh at your fantastic caricature, so 
utterly unlike what I see. There’s a change, 
it’s true, but no more than years usually 
bring; and, by Jove! I’d much rather any 
day grow a little full, for my part, than turn, 
like some fellows, into a scarecrow.” 

“Ho, no — no scarecrow, certainly,” still 
laughed Yarbarriere. 

“ Egad, UP,” laughed the attorney in 
chorus. “Ho corners there, sir — ribs well 
covered — hey? nothing like it coming on 
winter and grinning pleasantly, he winked 
at Sir Jekyl, who somehow neither heard nor 
saw him, but said — 

“Mr. Pelter, my law adviser here, was 
good enough to say he’d come to my room, 
which you know so well, Monsieur Yarbar- 
riere, and smoke a cigar. You can’t do bet- 
ter — pray let me persuade you.” 

He was in fact tolerably easily persuaded, 
and the three gentlemen together — Sir Jekyl 
feeling as if he was walking in a dream, and 
leaping the way affably — reached that snug- 
gery which Yarbarriere had visited so often 
before. 

“Just one^WLQj are so good,” said he. 
“We are to go to the drawing-room — aren’t 
we?” 

“ Oh, certainly. I think you’ll like these 
— they’re rather good, Mr. Pelter. You know 
them. Monsieur Yarbarriere.” 

“ I’ve hardly ever smoked such tobacco. 
Once, by a chance, at Lyons, I lighted on a 
; box very like these— that is, about a third of 
them — but hardly so good.” 

“ We’ve smoked some of these very pleas- 
antly together,” ^aid Sir Jekyl, cultivating 
genial relations. 

Yarbarriere, who had already one between 
his lips, grunted a polite assent with a nod. 
You would have thought that his whole soul 
was in his tobacco, as liis dark eyes dreamily 
followed the smoke that thinly streamed from 
his lips. His mind, however, was busy in con- 
jecturing what the attorney had come about, 
and how much he knew of his case and his 
plans. So the three gentlemen puffed away 
in silence for a time. 

“ Your nephew, Mr. Guy Strangways, I 
hope we are soon to see him again ‘r” asked 
Sir Jekyl, removing his cigar for a moment. 

“You are very good. Yes, I hope. In 
fact, though I call it business, it is only a 
folly which displeases me, which he has 
promised shall end ; and whenever I choose 
to shake hands, he will come to my side. 
There is no real quarrel, mind,” and Yarbar- 
riere laughed, “ only I must cure him of his 
nonsense.” 

“ Well, then we may hope very soon to 
see Mr. Strangways. I call him Strangways, 
you know, because he has assumed that 
name, I suppose, permanently.” 


106 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Well, I think so. His real name is Dev- 
erell — a very near relation, and, in fact, rep- 
resentative of our poor friend Guy. His 
friends all thought it best he should drop it, 
with its sad associations, and assume a name 
that may be of some little use to him among 
more affluent relatives,” said M. Yarbarriere, 
who had resolved to be frank as day and 
harmless as doves, and to disarm suspicion 
adroitly. 

“A particularly handsome fellow — a dis- 
tinguished-looking young man. How many 
things. Monsieur Varbaraiere, we wish un- 
done as we get on in life ?” 

There was a knock at the door, and the 
intelligence that Mr. Pelter's luggage was in 
his room. He would have st lyed, perhaps, 
but Sir Jekyl, smiling, urged haste, and as his 
cigar was out, he departed. When he was 
quite gone. Sir Jekyl rose smiling, and ex- 
tended his hand to Yarbarriere, who took it 
smiling in his own way ; also. Sir Jekyl was 
looking in the face of the large man who 
stood before him, and returning his gaze a 
little cloudily; and laughing, both shook 
hands for a good while, and there was nothing 
but this low-toned laughter between them. 

“ At all events, Herbert, I’m glad we have 
met, very glad — very, very. I did not think 
I’d have felt it quite tliis way. I’ve your 
forgiveness to ask for a great deal. I never 
mistook a man so much in my life. I believe 
you are a devilish good fellow ; but — but I 
fancied, you know, for a long time, that you 
had taken a hatred to me, and — and I have 
done you great injustice ; and I wish very 
much I could be of any use to— to that fine 
young fellow, and show any kindness worth 
the name towards you.” 

Sir Jekyl’s eyes were moist, he was smiling, 
and he was shaking Yarbarriere’s powerful 
hand very kindly. I cannot analyse his 
thoughts and feelings in that moment of con- 
fusion. It had overcome him suddenly — it 
had in some strange way eyen touched Yar- 
barriere. Was there dimly seen by each a 
kindly solution of a life-long hatred— a pos- 
sibility of something wise, perhaps self-sac- 
rificing, that led to reconciliationand serenity 
in old days ? 

Yarbarriere leaned his great shoulders to 
the wall, his hand still in Sir Jekyl’s, still 
smiling, and looked almost sorrowfully, while 
he uttered something between a long pant 
and a sigh. 

“ Wonderful thing life is — terrible battle, 
life !” murmured Yarbarriere, leaning against 
the wall, tvith his dark eyes raised to the 
far cornice, and looking aw^y and through 
and beyond it into some far star. 

There are times when your wide-awake 
gentlemen dream a little, and Sir Jekyl 
laughed a pensive and gentle little laugh, 
shaking his head and smiling sadly in reply. 

“Did you ever read Yathek?” asked the 
Baronet, “ rather a good horror — the fire, you 
know — ah, ha !— that’s a fire every fellow has 
a spark of in him ; I know I have. I’ve had 
everything almost a fellow wants ; but this I 
know, if I were sure that death was only 
rest and darkness, there’s hardly a day I live 


I would not choose it.” And with this senti- 
ment came a sincere and odd little laugh. 

“My faith ! I believe it’s true,” said Yar- 
barriere with a shrug, and a faint smile of 
satiety on his heavy features. 

“We must talk lots together, Herbert— 
talk a great deal. You’ll find I’m not such 
a bad fellow after all. Egad, I’m 'oery glad 
you’re here !” 


CHAPTER LHI. 

A RENCONTRE IN THE GALLERY. 

It was time now, however, that they should 
make their appearance in the drawing-room ; 
so, for the present, Yarbarriere departed. 
He reached his dressing-room in an unde- 
fined state — a sort of light, not of battle 
fires, but of the dawn in his perspective; 
when, all on a sudden, came the image of a 
white-moustached, white-browed, grim old 
military man, glancing with a clear, cold 
eye, that could be cruel, from the first-class 
jarriage window, up and dowm the platform 
of a gas-lit station, some hour and a half 
away from Slowton, and then sternly at his 
watch. 

“ The stupid old fogey !” thought Yarbar- 
riere with a pang, as he revfeed his toilet 
hurriedly for the drawing-room. “ Could 
that episode be evaded ?” 

There was no time to arrive at a clear 
opinion on this point, nor, indeed, to ascer- 
tain very clearly what his own wishes 
pointed at. So, in a sta.te rather anarchic, 
he entered the gallery, en route for the draw- 
ing-room. 

Monsieur Yarbarriere slid forth, fat and 
black, from his doorway, with wondrous 
little nose, his bulk considered, and instantly 
on his retina, lighted by the lamp at the 
cross galleries, appeared the figure of a tall 
thin female, attired in a dark cloak and bon- 
net, seated against the opposite wall, not 
many steps away. Its head turned, and he 
saw Donica Gwynn. It was an odd sort of 
surprise ; he had just been thinking her. 

“ Oh ! I did not think as you were here, 
sir, I thought you was in Lunnon.” 

“ Yet here I am, and you too, both unex- 
pectedly.” A suspicion had crossed his 
mind. “ How d’ye do, Mrs. Gwynn ?” 

“ Well, I thank you, sir.” 

“ Want here?” 

“ Ho, sir ; I was wrote for by missus, 
please.” 

“ Yes,” he said very slowly, looking hard 
at her. “ Yery good, Mrs. Gwynn ; have you 
anything to say to me ?” 

It would not do, of course, to protract this 
accidental talk ; he did not care to be seen 
t^te-a-tete with Donica Gwynn in the gallery. 

“ No, sir, please, I han’t nothing to say, 
sir,” and she courtesied. 

“Yery well, Mrs. Gwynn ; we’re quite se- 
cret, hey ?” and with another hard look, but 
only momentary, in her face, he proceeded 
toward the head of the staircase. 

“ Beg parding, sir, but I think you dropt 


GUY DEVERELL 107 


{Something.” She was pointing to a letter, 
doubled up, and a triangular corner of which 
struck up from the floor, a few yards away. 

“ Oh ! thank you,” said Varbarriere, 
quickly retracing his steps, and picking it up. 

A terrible fact for the world to digest is 
this, that some of our gentlemen attorneys 
are about the most slobbering men of busi- 
ness to be found within its four corners. 
They will mislay papers, and even lose 
them ; they are dilatory and indolent — 
qnite the reverse of our sharp, lynxed-eyed, 
energetic notions of that priesthood of 
Themis, and prone to every sort and descrip- 
tion of lay irregularity in matters of order 
and pink tape. 

Our first Pelter had a first-rate staff, and a 
clockwork partner beside in Crowe, so that 
the house was a very regular one, and was 
himself, in good measure, the fire, bustle, and 
impetus of the firm. But every virtue has 
its peccant correspondent. If Pelter was 
rapid, decided, darling, he was also a little 
hand-over-hand. He has been seen in a 
hurry to sweep together and crunch like a 
snowball a drift of bank-notes, and stuff* them 
so impressed into the bottom of his great- 
coat pocket ! What more can one say ? 

This night, fussing out at his bed-room 
door, he plucked his scented handkerchief 
from his pocket, and, as he crossed his 
threshold, with it flirted forth a letter, which 
had undergone considerable attrition in that 
receptacle, and was nothing the whiter, I 
am bound to admit, especially about the 
edges, for its long sojourn there. 

Varbarriere knew- the handwriting and 
I. M. M. initials in the left-hand lower angle. 
So, with a nod and a smile, he popped it 
into his trowsers pocket, being that degree 
more cautious than Pelter. 

Sir Jekyl was once more in high spirits. 
To do him justice, he had not effected any- 
thing. There had been an effervescence — 
he hardly knew how it came about. But 
his dangers seemed to be dispersing; and, 
at the worst, were not negotiation and com- 
promise within his reach ? 

Samuel Pelter, Esq., gentleman attorney 
and a solicitor of the High Court of Chan- 
cery, like most prosperous men, had a com- 
fortable confidence in himself ; and having 
heard that Lady Alice Redcliffe was quarrel- 
ling with her lawyer, thought there could 
be no harm in his cultivating her acquain- 
tance. 

The old lady was sitting in a high-back 
chair, very perpendicularly, with several 
shawls about and around her, stiff and pale ; 
but her dusky eyes peered from their sunken 
sockets, in grim and isolated observation. 

Pelter strutted up. He was not, perhaps, 
a distinguished-looking man — rather, I fear, 
the contrary. His face was broad and smirk- 
ing, with a* short, broad, blue chin, and a 
close crop of iron-grey on his round head, 
and plenty of crafty crow’s-feet and other 
lines well placed about. 

He stood on the hearthrug, within easy 
earshot of Lady Alice, whom he eyed with a 
shrewd glance, “ taking her measure,” as his 


phrase was, and preparing to fascinate his 
prey. 

“ Awful smash that, ma’am, on the 
Smather and Slam Junction,” said Pelter, 
having fished up a suitable topic. “ Fright- 
ful thing — fourteen killed — and they say up- 
wards of seventy badly hurt. I’m no chicken. 
Lady Alice, but by Jove, ma’am, I can’t re- 
member any such casualty — a regular ca-tas- 
trophe, ma’am !” 

And, Pelter, with much feeling, gently 
lashed his paunch with his watch-chain and 
bunch of seals, an obsolete decoration, which 
he wore — I believe still wears. 

Lady Alice, who glowerde sternly on him 
during this speech, nodded abruptly with an 
inarticulate sound, and then looked to his 
left, at a distant picture. 

“ I trust I see you a great deal better. Lady 
Alice. I have the pleasure, I believe, to ad- 
dress Lady Alice Redcliffe — aw, haw, h’m,” 
and the attorney executed his best bow, a 
ceremony rather of agility than grace. “ I 
had the honor of seeing you. Lady Alice Red- 
cliffe, at a shower-flow — flower-show, I mean 
— in the year— let me see — egad, ma’am, 
twelve — no — no^-^thirteen years ago. How 
time does fly ! Of course all them years— 
thirteen^ egad ! — has not gone for nothing. 
I dare say you don’t perceive the alterations 
in yourself— no one does — I wish no one else 
did — that was always ray wish to Mrs. ,P. 
of a morning — my good lady, Mrs. Pelter — 
ha, ha, ha ! Man can’t tether time or tide, 
as the Psalm says, and every year scribbles 
a winkle or two. You were suffering, I 
heard then, ma’am, chronic cough, ma’am — 
and all that. I hope it’s abated — I know it 
will, ma’am — my poor lady is a martyr to 
it — troublesome thing — very — awful trouble- 
some ! Lady Alice.” 

There was no reply. Lady Alice was still 
looking sternly at the picture. 

“ I remember so well, ma’am, you were 
walking a little lame then, linked with Lord 
Lumdlebury — (we have had the honor to do 
business occasionally for his lordship) — and 
I was informed by a party with me that you 
had been with Pincendorf. I don’t think 
much of them jockeys, ma’am, for my part; 
but if it was anything, of a callosity 

Without waiting for anything more. Lady 
Alice Redcliffe rose in solemn silence to her 
full height, beckoned to Beatrix, and said 
grimly — 

“I’ll change my seat, dear, to the sofa- 
will you help me with these things ?” 

Lady Alice glided awfully to the sofa, and 
the gallant Mr. iPelter instituted a playful 
struggle with Beatrix for possession of the 
shawls. 

“ I remember the time, miss, I would not 
have let you carry your share ; but as I was 
saying to Lady Alice Redcliffe ” 

He was by this time tucking a shawl about * 
her knees, which, so soon as she perceived, 
she gasped to Beatrix — 

“ Where’s Jekyl ? — I can’t have this any 
longer — call him here.” 

“ As I was saying to you. Lady Alice 
ma’am our joints grow a bit rusty after 


108 


GUY DEVERELL. 


sixty; and talking of feet, I passed the 
Smather and Slam Junction, ma’am, only 
two hours after the collision ; and egad ! 
there were three feet all in a row cut off by 
the instep, quite smooth, ma’am, lying in the 
blood there, a pool as long as the passage 
up-stairs — awful sight !” 

Lady Alice rose up again with her eyes 
very wide, and her mouth very close, ap- 
parently engaged in mental prayer, and her 
face angry and pink, and she beckoned with 
tremulous fingers to Sir J ekyl, who was ap- 
proaching with one of his provoking smiles. 

“ I say, Mr. Pelter, my friend Doocey wants 
you over there ; they’re at loggerheads about 
a law-point, and I can’t help them.” 

“ Hey ! if it’s practice I can give them a 
wrinkle maybe and away stumped the 
attorney, his fists in his pockets, smirking, to 
the group indicated by his host. 

“ Hope I haven’t interrupted a conversa- 
tion ? What can I do for you said Sir 
Jekyl, gaily. 

“ What do you mean^ Jekyl Marlowe — 
what can you mean by bringing such persons 
here ?” What pleasure can you possibly find 
in low and dreadful society ?— none of your 
family liked it. Where did you find that 
man ? How on earth did you procure such 
a person? If I could — if I had been well 
enough, I’d have rung the bell and ordered 
your servant to remove him. I’d have gone 
to my bed-room, sir, only that even there I 
could not have felt safe from his intrusions. 
It’s utterly intolerable and preposterous !” 

“ I had no idea my venerable friend, 
Pelter, could have pursued a lady so cruelly ; 
but rely upon me. I’ll protect you.” 

“ I think you had better cleanse your house 
of such persons ; at all events, I insist they 
shan’t be allowed to make their horrible 
sport of me !” said Lady Alice, darting a 
fiery glance after the agreeable attorney. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

OLD DONNIE AND LADY JANE. 

“ Can you tell me, child, anything about 
that horrible fat old Frenchman, who has 
begun to speak English since his return ?” 
asked Lady Jane Lennox of Beatrix, whom 
she stopped, just touching her arm with the 
tip of her finger, as she was passing. Lady 
Jane was leaning back indolently, and watch- 
ing the movements of M. Varbarriere with a 
disagreeable interest. 

“ That’s Monsieur Varbarriere,” answered 
Beatrix. 

“ Yes, I know that ; but who is he — what 
is he? I wish he were gone,” replied she. 

“ I really know nothing of him,” replied 
Beatrix, with a smile. 

“ Yes, you do know something about him ; 
for instance, you know he’s the uncle of that 
handsome young man who accompanied 
him.” This, Lad}’’ Jane spoke with a point 
which caused on a sudden a beautiful scarlet 
to tinge the young girl’s cheeks. 

Lady Jane looked at her, without a smile, 
without archness, with a lowering curiosity 


and something of pain, one might fancy, 
even of malignity. 

Lady Jane hooked her finger in Beatrix’s 
bracelet, and lowering her eyes to the carpet, 
remained silent, it seemed to the girl unde- 
cided whether to speak or not on some 
doubtful subject. With a vague interest 
Beatrix watched her handsome but sombre 
countenance, till Lady Jane appearing to 
escape from her thoughts, with a little toss 
of her beautiful head, and a frown, said, 
looking up — 

“ Beatrix, I have such frightful dreams 
sometimes. I am ill, I think ; I am horribly 
nervous to night.” 

“Would you like to go to your room? 
Maybe if you were to lie down. Lady 
Jane ” 

“ By-and-by, perhaps — yes.” She was still 
stealthily watching Varbarriere. 

“ I’ll go with you — shall I ?” said Beatrix. 

“ Ho, you shan’t,” answered Lady Jane, 
rudely. 

“And why, Lady Jane?” asked Beatrix, 
hurt and surprised. 

“ You shall never visit my room ; you are 
a good little creature. I could have loved 
you, Beatrix, but now I can’t.” 

“Yet I like you, and you meet me so ! 
why is this ?” pleaded Beatrix. 

“ I can’t say, little fool ; who ever knows 
why they like or dislike? I don’t. The 
fault, I suppose, is mine, not yours. I never 
said it was yours. If you were ever so little 
wicked,” she added, with a strange laugh, 
“ perhaps I could ; but it is not worth talking 
about,” and with a sudden change from this 
sinister levity to a seriousness which oscillated 
strangely between cruelty and sadness, she 
said — 

“ Beatrix, you like that young man, Mr. 
Strangways !” Again poor Beatrix blushed, 
and was about to falter an exculpation and 
a protest ; but Lady Jane silenced it with a 
grave and resolute “ Tes—you like him y” and 
after a little pause, she added — “ Well, if 
you don’t marry him^ marry no one else ;” 
and shortly after this. Lady Jane sighed 
heavily. 

This speech of hers was delivered in a 
way that prevented evasion or girlish hypo- 
crisy, and Beatrix had no answer but that 
blush which became her so ; and dropping 
her eyes to the ground, she fell into a 
reverie, from which she was called up by 
Lady Jane, who said suddenly — 

“ What can that Monsieur Varbarriere be ? 
He looks like Torquemada, the Inquisitor — 
mysterious, plausible, truculent — what do 
you think ? Don’t you fancy he could poi- 
son you in an ice or a cup of coffee ; or put 
you into Cardinal Ballue’s cage, and smile on 
you once a year through the bars ?” 

Beatrix smiled, and looked on the unctu- 
ous old gentleman with an indulgent eye, 
comparatively. 

“ I can’t see him so melodramatically, 
Lady Jane,” she laughed. “ To me he seems 
a much more commonplace individual, a 
great deal less interesting and atrocious, and 
less like the abbot.” 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“What abbot?” said Lady Jane, sharply. 
“ Now really that’s yery odd.” 

“I meant,” said Beatrix, laughing, “the 
Abbot of Quedlinberg, in Channing^s play, 
who is described, you know, as very corpu- 
lent and cruel.” 

“ Oh, I forgot ; I don’t think I eyer read it ; 
but it chimed in so oddly with my dreams.” 

“ How, what do you mean?” cried Beatrix, 
amused! 

“ I dreamed some one knocked at night at 
my door, and when I said ‘ come in,’ that 
Monsieur Varbarriere put in his great face, 
with a hood on like a friar’s, smiling like — 
like an assassin ; and somehow I have felt a 
disgust of him ever since.” 

“ Well, I really think he would look rather 
well in a friar’s frock and hood,” said Beatrix, 
glancing at the solemn old man again with a 
little laugh. “He would do very well for 
Mrs. Radcliff’s one-handed monk, or Sche- 
done, or some of those awful ecclesiastics 
that scare us in books.” 

“ I think him positively odious, and I hate 
him,” said Lady Jane, quietly rising. “I 
mean to steal away— will you come with me 
to the foot of the stair ?”^ 

“ Come,’^ whispered Beatrix ; and as Lady 
Jane lighted her candle, in that arched re- 
cess near the foot of the stair, where, in bur- 
nished silver, stand the files of candles, 
awaiting the fingers which are to bear them 
off to witness the confidences of toilet or of 
dejection, she said — 

“ Well, as you won’t take me with you, 
we must part here. Good-night, Lady Jane.” 

Lady Jane turned as if to kiss her, but 
only patted her on the cheek, and said 
coldly — 

“ Good-bye, little fool — now run back 
again.” 

When Lady Jane reached the gallery at 
the top of the staircase, she, too, saw Donica 
Gwynn seated where Varbarriere had spoken 
to her. 

“ Ha ! Donica,” cried she suddenly, in the 
accents of early girlhood, “ I’m so glad to 
see you, Donica. You hardly know me 
now ?” 

And Lady Jane, in the light of one tran- 
sient, happy smile, threw her jewelled arms 
round the neck of the old housekeeper, whose 
visits of weeks at a time to Wardlock were 
nearly her happiest remembrances of that 
staid old mansion. 

“ You dear old thing ! you were always 
good to me ; and I such a madcap and such 
a fury ! Dull enough now, Donnie, but not 
a bit better.” 

“ My poor Miss Jennie !” said old Donica 
Gwynn, with a tender little laugh, her head 
just a little on one side, looking on her old 
pet and charge with such a beautiful, soft 
lighting up of love in her hard old face as 
you would not have fancied could have 
beamed there. Oh ! most pathetic mystery, 
how in our poor nature, layer over layer, the 
angelic and the evil, the mean and the noble, 
lie alternated. How sometimes, at long in- 
tervals, in the wintriest life and darkest face, 
the love of angels will suddenly beam out. 


109 

and show you, still unwrecked, the eternal 
capacity for heaven. 

“ And grown such a fine ’oman — bless ye 
— I always said she would — didn’t I ?” 

“ You always stood up for me, old Donnie 
Don. Come into my room with me now 
and talk. Yes — come, and talk, and talk 
and talk — I have no one, Donnie, to talk 
with now. If I had I might be different — I 
mean better. You remember poor mamma, 
Donnie — don’t you ?” 

“ Dear ! to be sure — yes, and a nice crea- 
ture, and a pretty — there’s a look in your 
face sometimes reminds me on her. Miss 
Jennie. And I allays said you’d do well — 
didn’t I ? — and see what a great match, they 
tell me, you a’ made ! Well well ! and how 
you ham grown ! — a fine lady, bless you,” 
and she laughed so softly over those thin, 
girlish images of memory, you’d have said 
the laugh was as far away and as sad as the 
remembrance. 

“ Sit down, Donnie Don,” she said, when 
they had entered the room. “ Sit down, and 
tell me everything — how all the old people 
are, and how the old place looks — you live 
there now ? I have nothing to tell, only I’m 
married, as you know — and — and I think a 
most good-for-nothing creature.” 

V Ah, no, pretty Miss Jane, there was good 
in you always, only a little bit hasty, and that 
anyone as had the patience could see ; and I 
knowed well you’d be better o’ that little 
folly in time.” 

“ I’m not better, Donnie — I’m worse — I am 
worse, Donnie. I know I am — not better.” 

“ Well, dear ! and jewels, and riches, and 
coaches, and a fine gentleman adoring you — 
not very young, though. Well, maybe all 
the better. Did you never hear say, it’s bet- 
ter to be an old man’s darling than a young 
man’s slave ?” 

“ Yes, Donnie, it’s very well ; but let us 
talk of Wardlock — and he’s not a fine man, 
Donnie, who put that in your head — he’s old, 
and ugly, and ” — she was going to say stupid, 
but the momentary bitterness was rebuked 
by an accidental glimpse of the casket in 
which his splendid present was secured — 

“ and tell me about Wardlock, and the people 
— is old Thomas Jones there still ?” 

“ No, he’s living at Glastonhowe now, with 
his grandson that’s married — very happy; 
but you would not believe how old he looks, 
and they say can’t remember nothink as he 
used to, but very comfortable.” 

“ And Turpin, the gardener ?” 

“ Old Turpin be dead, miss, two years 
agone ; had a fit a few months before,"poor 
old fellow, and was never strong after. 
Very deaf he was of late years, and a bi 
cross sometimes about the vegetables, the} 
do say ; but he was a good-natured fellow 
and decent allays; and though he liked 
mug of ale, poor fellow, now and then, h 
was very regular at church.” 

“ Poor old Turpin dead ! I never heard it 
— and oldf he used to wear a kind of flaxen 
wig.” 

“ Old ! dearie me, that he was, miss, you 
would not guess how old — there’s eighty-five 


110 


GUY DEYEBELL. 


years on tlie grave-stone that Lady Alice put 
over him, from the parish register, in Ward- 
lock churchyard, bless ye !” 

“ And — and as I said just nov about my 
husband. General Lennox, that he was old — 
well, he is old, but he’s a good man, and kind, 
. and such a gentleman.” 

“ And you love him— and what more is 
needed to make you both happy?” added 
Donica ; “ and glad I am, miss, to see you so 
i comfortably married — and such a nice, good 
grand gentleman ; and don’t let them young 
I chaps be coming about you with their com- 
ipliments, and fine talk, and love-making.” 

“ What do you mean, woman ? I should 
hope I know how to behave myself as well 
as ever Lady Alice Kedclifib did. It is she 
who has been talking to you, and, I suppose, 
to every one, the stupid, wicked hag.” 

“ Oh, Miss Jennie, dear !” 



CHAPTEK LY. 

ALONE — YET NOT ALONE. 

Well, Donnie, don’t talk about her; talk 
about Wardlock, and the people, and the 
garden, and the trees, and old Wardlock 
church,” said Lady Jane, subsiding almost* as 
suddenly as sjie flamed np. “Do you re- 
member the brass tablet about Eleanor 
Faukes, well-beloved and godly, who died in 
her twenty-second year, in the year of grace 
sixteen hundred and thirty-four ? See how 
I remember it ! Poor Eleanor Faukes ! I 
often think of her— and do you remember 
how you used to make me read the two 
lines at the end of the epitaph ? ‘ What you 
are I was ; what I am you shall be.’ Do you 
remember ?” 

“ Ay, miss, that I do. I wish I could think 
o’ them sort o’ things allays — it’s very good, 
miss.” 

“ Perhaps it is, Donnie. It’s very sad and 
very horrible, at all events, death and judg- 
ment,” answered Lady Jane. 

“ Have you your old Bible yet, miss?” 

“ Hot here,” answered Lady Jane, color- 
ing a little ; but recollecting, she said, “ I ham 
got a very pretty one, though,” and she pro- 
duced a beautiful volume bound in velvet 
and gold. 

“ A deal handsomer. Miss Jennie, but not 
so well read. I’m afeared,” said Donica 
Gwynn, looking at the fresh binding and 
shining gilt leaves. 

“ There it is, Donnie Don ; but I feel like 
you, and I dx) like the old one best, blurred 
and battered ; poor old thing, it looked 
friendly, and this ’like a fashionable chaplain. 
I have not seen it for a long time, Donnie ; 
perhaps it’s lost, and this is only a show one, 
as you see.” 

And after a few seconds she added, a little 
bitterly, almost angrily, “ I never read my 
Bible now. I never open it,” and then came 
an unnatural little laugh. 

“Oh! Miss Jennie, dear — I mean my 
Lady Jane — don’t say that, darling — that 
way, anyhow, don’t say it. Why should not 


you read your Bible, and love it, better now 
nor ever, miss — the longer you live the more 
you’ll want it, and when sorrow comes, what 
have you but that ?” 

“ It’s all denunciation, all hard names, and 
threats, Donnie. If people believed them- 
selves what they say every Sunday in church, 
miserable sinners, and I dare say they are, 
they’d sicken and quake at sight of it. I 
hope I may come to like it some day^, Don- 
nie,” she added, with a short sigh. 

“ I mind. Miss J ennie — I mean my Lady 
Jane.” 

“ Ho, you’re to call me Jennie still, or I’ll 
drop Donnie Don, and call you Mrs. Gwynn,” 
said Lady Jane, with her hands on Donica’s 
thin shoulders, playfully, but with a very pen- 
sive face and tone. 

Donica smiled for a moment, and then her 
face saddened too, and she said — 

“ And I mind. Miss Jennie, when it was 
the same way with me, only with better 
reason, for I was older than you, and had 
lived longer than ever you did without a 
thought of God ; but I tell you, miss, you’ll 
find your only comfort there at last ; it is 
not much, maybe to the like o’ me, that can’t 
lay her mind Sown to it, but it’s someihmk ; 
ay, I mind the time I durst not open it, think- 
ing I’d only meet summat there to vex me. 
But ’tisn’t so : there’s a deal o’ good nature 
in the Bible, and ye’ll be sure to stumble on 
something kind whenever you open it. 

Lady Jane made no answef. She looked 
down with a careworn gaze on her white 
hand, the fleeting tenement of clay ; jewelled 
rings glimmered on its fingers — the vanities 
of the world, and under it lay the Bible, the 
eternal word. She was patting the volume 
with a little movement that made the bril- 
liants flash. You would have thought she 
was admiring her rings, but that her eyes 
were so sad and her gaze so dreamy. 

“ And I hear the mistress. Lady Alice, 
a*coming up — yes, ’tis her voice. Good- 
night, Miss Jennie, dear.” 

“ Good-night, dear old Donnie.” 

“ And you’ll promise me you’ll read a bit 
in it every night.” 

“ Where’s the use in promising, Donnie ? 
Don’t we promise everything — the whole 
Christian religion, at our baptism— and how 
do we keep it ?” 

“ You must promise you’ll read, if ’twas 
only a verse every night, Miss Jennie, dear 
—it may be the makin’ o’ ye. I hear Lady 
Alice a calling.” 

“You’re a good old thing — I like you, 
Donnie — you’d like to make me better— hap- 
pier, that is— and I love you— and I promise 
for this night, at all events, I will read a 
verse, and maybe more, if it turns out good- 
natured, as you say. Good-night.” 

And she shook old Gwynn by both hands, 
and kissed her ; and as she parted with her, 
said — 

“ And, Donnie, you must tell my maid I' 
shan’t want her to-night— and I will read, 
Donnie— and now, good-night again.” 

So handsome Lady Jane was alone. 

“ It seems to me as if I had not time to 


GUY DEVERELL. 


Ill 


think— God help me, God help me,” said 
Lady Jane. “ Shall I read it ? That odious 
book. That puts impossibilities before us, and 
calls eternal damnation eternal justice !” 

“ Good-night, Jane,” croaked Lady Alice’s 
voice, and the key turned in the door. 

With a pallid glance from the corners of 
her eyes, of intense contempt — hatred^ even, 
at the moment, she gazed on the door, as she 
sate with her fingers under her chin ; and if 
a look could have pierced the panels, hers 
would have shot old Lady Alice dead at the 
other side. For about a minute she sat so, 
and then a chilly little laugh rang from her 
lips ; and she thought no more for a while of 
Lady Alice, and her eyes wandered again to 
her Bible. 

“ Yes, that odious book 1 with just power 
enough to distract us, without convincing — 
to embitter our short existence, without di- 
recting it ; I hate it.” 

So she said, and looked as if she would 
have fiung it into the farthest corner of the 
room. She was spited with it, as so many 
others are, because it won’t do for us what 
we must do for ourselves. 

“ When sorrow comes, poor Donnie says — 
when it comes — little she knows how long it 
has been here ! Life — such a dream — such 
an agony often. Surely it pays the penalty 
of all its follies. Judgment indeed ! The 
all- wise Creator sitting in judgment upon 
creatures like us, living but an hour, and 
walking in a dream !” 

This kind of talk with her, as with many 
others, was only the expression of a form of 
pain. She was perhaps in the very mood to 
read, that is, with the keen and anxious in- 
terest that accompanies and indicates a deep- 
seated grief and fear. 

It was quite true what she said to old 
Donica. These pages had long been sealed 
for her. And now, with a mixture of sad an- 
tipathy and interest, as one looks into a coffin, 
she did open the book, and read here and 
there in a desultory way, and then, leaning 
on her hand, she mused dismally ; then made 
search for a place she wanted, and read and 
wept, wept aloud and long and bitterly. 

The woman taken, and“ set in the midst,” 
the dreadful Pharisees standing round. The 
Lord of life, who will judge us on the last 
day, hearing and saving! Oh, blessed Prince, 
whose service is perfect freedom, how wise 
are thy statutes ! “ More to be desired are 
they than gold — sweeter also than honey.” 
Standing between thy poor tempted crea- 
tures and the worst sorrow that can befall 
them — a sorrow that softens, not like others, 
as death approaches, but is transformed, and 
stands like a giant at the bedside. May they 
see thy interposing image — may they see thy 
face now and for ever. 

Rest for the heavy-laden! The broken 
Tand the contrite he will not despise. Read 
and take comfort, how he dealt with that 
poor sinner. Perfect purity, perfect mercy. 
Oh, noblest vision that ever rose before con- 
trite frailty ! Lift up the downcast head — let 
the poor heart break no more — you shall rise 
from the dust an angel. 


Suddenly she lifted up her pale face, with 
an agony and a light on her countenance, 
with hands clasped, and such a look from 
the abyss, in her upturned eyes. 

Oh 1 was it possible — could it be true ? A 
friend — such unfriend ! 

Then came a burst of prayer-wild reso- 
lutions — agonised tears. She knew that in 
all space, for her, was but one place of safety 
— to lie at the wounded feet of her Saviour, 
to clasp them, to bathe them with her tears. 
An hour — more — passed in this agony of 
stormy hope breaking in gleams through des- 
pair. Prayer — cries for help, as from the 
drowning, and vows frantic — holy, for the fu- 
ture. 

“ Yes, once more, thank God, I can dare 
with safety — here and now — to see him for the 
last time. In the morning I will conjure old 
Lady Alice to take me to Wardlock. I will 
write to London. Arthur will join me there. 
I’d like to go abroad never into the world 
again — never — never — never. He will be 
pleased. I’ll try to make amends. He’ll 
never know what a wretch I’ve been. But he 
shall see the change, and be happier. Yes, 
yes, yes.” Her beautiful long hair was loose, 
its rich folds clasped in her strained fingers — 
her pale upturned face bathed in tears and 
quivering — “ The Saviour’s feet 1 No happi- 
ness but there ; wash them with my tears ; 
dry them with this hair.” And she lifted up 
her eyes and hands to heaven. 

Poor thing ! In the storm, as cloud and 
rack fly by, the momentary gleam that comes 
— what is it ? Do not often these agitations 
subside in darkness? Was this to be a last- 
ing sunshine, though saddened for her ? Was 
she indeed safe now and for ever ? 

But is there any promise that repentance 
shall arrest the course of the avenger that 
follows sin on earth ? Are broken health or 
blighted fame restored when the wicked man 
“ turneth away from the wickedness that he 
hath committed ;” and do those consequences 
that dog iniquity with “feet of wool and 
hands of iron,” stay their sightless and 
soundless march so soon as he begins to db 
“that which is lawful and right?” It is 
enough for him to know that he that does so 
shall “ save his soul alive.” 


CHAPTER LVI. 

VARBARRIERE THE TYRANT DEBATES WITH 
THE WEAKER VARBARRIERES. ^ 

“ May I see you. Monsieur Yarbarriere, to- 
morrow, in the room in which I saw you to- 
day, at any hour you please after half-past 
eleven ?” inquired Lady Alice, a few minutes 
after that gentleman had approached her. 

“ Certainly, madam ; perhaps I can at this 
moment answer you upon points which cause 
you anxiety ; pray command me.” 

And he sate like a corpulent penitent on a 
low prie-dieu chair beside her knee, and in- 
clined his ear to listen. 

“ It is only to learn whether my — my poox 
boy’s son, my grandson, the young man ii 
whom I must I feel so deep an interest, i 
about to return here ? 


112 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ I can’t be quite certain, madam, of that ; 
but I can promise that he will do himself the 
honor to present himself before you, when- 
ever you may please to appoint, at your 
house *^of Wardlock.” 

“ Yes, that would be better still. He could 
come there and see his old grandmother. I 
would like to see him soon. I have a great 
deal to say to him, a great deal to tell him 
that would interest him ; and the pictures ; 
I know you will let him come. Do you re- 
ally mean it. Monsieur Varbarriere ?” 

M. Yarbarriere smiled a little contemptu- 
ousty, and bowed most deferentially. 

“ Certainly madam, I mean what I say ; and 
if I did 'not mean it, still I would say I do.” 

There was something mazy in this sen- 
tence which a little bewildered old Lady 
Alice’s head, and she gazed on Yarbarriere 
with a lack-lustre frown. 

“ Well, then, sir, the upshot of the matter 
is that I may rely on what you say, and ex- 
pect my grandson’s visit at Wardlock?” 

“ Certainly, madam, you may expect it,” re- 
joined Yarbarriere, oracularly. 

“ And pray. Monsieur Yarbarriere, are you 
married ?” inquired the old lady, with the 
air of a person who had a right to be in- 
formed. 

“ Alas, madam, may I say Latin ? Infan- 
dum, regina, iubes renovare dolorem ; you 
stir up my deepest grief. I am, indeed, what 
you call an old bachelor.” 

“ Well, so I should suppose ; I don’t see 
what business you would have had to marry.” 

^ “ Nor I either,” he replied. i 

“ And you are very rich, I suppose.” 

“ The rich man never says he is rich, and 
the poor man never says he is poor. What 
shall I say ? Pretty well ! Will that do ?” 

“ H’m, yes ; you ought to make a settle- 
ment, Monsieur Yarbarriere.” 

“ On your grandson, madam ?” 

“ Yes, my grandson, he’s nothing the worse 
of that, sir — and your nephew.” 

“ Madam, the idea is beneficent, and does 
honor to your heart. I have, to say truth, 
had an idea of doing something for him by 
my will, though not by settlement ; you are 
quite in advance of me, madam — I shall re- 
flect.” 

Monsieur Yarbarriere was, after his wont, 
gravely amusing himself, so gravely that 
old Lady Alice never suspected an irony. 
Old Lady Alice had in her turn taken up 
the idea of a solution of all family variance, 
by a union between Guy Devereli and 
Beatrix, and her old brain w^as already at 
the settlements. 

“ Lady Alice, you must positively give us 
up our partner. Monsieur Yarbarriere, our 
game is arrested : and, egad, Pelter, poor 
fellow, is bursting with jealousy !” 

Lady Alice turned disdainfully from Sir 
Jekyl. 

“ Monsieur Yarbarriere, pray don’t allow 
me to detain you now. I should be very 
glad to see you, if you had no particular ob- 
jection, to-morrow.” 

“ Only too happy ; you do me, madam, a 
great deal of honor and with a bow and 


a smile Monsieur Yarbarriere withdrew to 
the whist-table. 

He did not play that night by any means 
so well as usual. Doocey, who was his 
partner, was, to say the least, disappointed, 
and Sir Jekyl and Sir Paul made a very 
nice thing of it, in that small way which 
makes domestic whist-players happy and 
serene. When they wound up, Doocey was 
as much irritated as a perfectly well-bred 
gentleman could be. 

“Well, Sir Paul, we earned our winnings, 
eh ? Four times the trick against honors, 
not bad play I think,” said Sir Jekyl, as 
they rose. 

“ Captain Doocey thinks our play had no- 
thing to do with it,” observed Sir Paul, with 
a faint radiance of complacent banter over 
his bluff face, as he put his adversary’s half- 
crowns into his trowsers pocket. 

“ I never said tJiat^ Sir Paul, of course ; 
you mistake me, but 'we might, don’t you 
think. Monsieur Yarbarriere, have played a 
little better ? for instance, we should have 
played our queen to the lead of spades. 
I’m sure that would have given us the 
trick, don’t you see, and you would have 
had the lead, and played diamonds, and 
forced Sir Jekyl to ruff' with his ace, and 
made my knave good, and that would have 
given us the lead .and trick.” 

“ Our pla3^ goes for nothing, you see, Sir 
Paul,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ No ; Captain Doocey thinks play had 
nothing to do with it,” said Sir Paul 
Blunket. 


“ ’Gad, I think play had ei'eryXhmg to do 
with it, not yours^ though, ” said Doocey, a 
little tartly. 

“ I must do 3^011 all justice,” interposed 
Yarbarriere, “you’re all right, everyone 
played well except me. I do pretty well 
when I’m in the vein, but I’m not to-night ; 
it was a very bad performance. I played 
execrably. Captain Doocey.” 

“Oh! no, I won’t allow that; but you 
know once or twice you certainly did not 
play according to your own principles, I 
mean, and I couldn’t therefore see exactly 
what you meant, and I dare say it was as 
much my fault as yours. 

And Doocey, with his finger on Yar- 
barriere’ s sleeve, fell into one of those resumes 
which mysteriously interest whist-players, 
and Yarbarriere listened to his energetic 
periods with his hands in his pockets, be- 
nignant but bored, and assented with a 
good grace to his own condemnation. And 
smothering a yawn as he moved away, again 
pleaded guilty to all the counts, and threw 
himself on the mercy of the court. 

“ What shall we do to-morrow ?” ex- 
claimed Sir Jekyl, and he heard a voice 
repeat “ to-morrow,” and so did Yarbarriere. 
“ I’ll turn it over, and at breakfast I’ll lay 
half a dozen plans before you, and you 
shall select. It’s a clear frosty night ; we 
shall have a fine day. You don’t leave us, 
Mr. Pelter, till the afternoon, d’ye see ? and 
mind. Lady Alice Redcliffe sits" in the bou- 
doir, at the first landing on the great stair ; 


GUY DEVERELL. 


113 


the servant will show you the way ; don’t 
fail to pay her a visit, d’ye mind, Pelter; 
she’s huffed, you left her so suddenly ; don’t 
mind her at first ; just amuse her a little, 
and I think she’s going to change her lawyer.” 

Pelter, with his hands in his pockets, 
smiled shrewdly and winked on Sir Jekyl. 

“ Thanks ; I kmow it, I heard it ; you can 
give us a lift in that quarter. Sir Jekyl, and I 
shan’t forget to pay my respects.” 

When the ladies had gone, and the gentle- 
men stood in groups the fire, or sat listless 
before it. Sir Jekyl, smiling, laid his hand on 
Varbarriere’s shoulder, and asked him in a 
low tone : 

“ Will you join Pelter in my room, and 
wind up with a cigar ?” 

“ I was going, that is, tempted, only ten 
minutes ago, to ask leave to join your party,” 
began Varbarriere. 

“It is not a party, we should be only 
three,” said Sir Jekyl, in an eager whisper. 

“ All the more inviting,” continued Var- 
barriere, smiling. “ But I suddenly recollect 
that I shall have rather a busy hour or two 
— three or four letters to write. M}'’ people 
of business in France never give me a mo- 
ment; they won’t pay my rent or cork a 
bottle, my faith ! without a letter.” 

“ Well, I’m sorry you can’t ; but you must 
make it up to me, and see, you must take 
two or three of these to your dressing-room,” 
and he presented his case to M. Varbarriere. 

“ Ha ! you are very good ; bat, no ; I like to 
connect them with your room, they must not. 

f row too common, they shall remain a treat. 

[o, no, I won’t ; ha, ha, ha ! Thank you very 
much,” and he waved them off, laughing and 
shaking his head. 

Somehow he could not brook accepting 
this trifling present. To be sure, here he 
was a guest at free quarters, but at this he 
stuck ; he drew back and waved away the 
cigar-case. It was not logical, but he could 
not help it. 

When Pelter and Sir Jekyl sat in the 
Baronet’s chamber, under their canopy of 
tobacco-smoke over their last cigar, 

“ See, Pelter,” said Sir Jekyl, it won’t do 
to seem anxious ; the fact is I’m not anxious ; 
I believe he has a lot of money to leave that 
young fellow. Suppose they marry ; the 
Deverells are a capital old family, don’t you 
see, and it will make up everything, and stop 
people talking about — about old nonsense. 
I’ll settle all, and I don’t care a curse, and I’ll 
not be very long in the way. I can’t keep 
always young, I’m past fifty.” 

“Judging by his manner, you know, I 
should say any proposition you may have to 
make he’d be happy to listen to,” said Mr. 
Pelter. 

“ You’re sleepy, Pelter.” 

“ Well, a little bit,” said the attorney, 
blinking, yawning, and grinning all to- 
gether. 

“ And egad, I think you want to be 
shaved,” said Sir Jekyl, who did not stand 
on ceremony with his attorney. 

“ Should not wonder,” said Mr. Pelter, 
feeling his chin over sleepily with his finger 
8 


and thumb. “My shave was at half-past 
four, and what is it now ? — ^half-past eleven, 
egad ! I thought it was later. Good-night, 
Sir Jekyl — those are cigars, magnificent, by 
Jove ! — and about that Strangway’s business, 

I would not be in too great a hurry, do you 
see ? I would not open anything, till I saw 
whether they were going to move, or whether 
there was anything in it. I would not put 
it in his head, d’ye see, hey?” and from 
habit Pelter winked. 

And with that salutation, harmless as the 
kiss apostolic, Mr. Pelter, aided by a few 
directions from Sir Jekyl, toddled away to 
his bed-chamber yawning, and the Baronet, 
after his wont, locked himself into his room 
in very tolerable spirits. 

There was a sofa in Varbarriere’s dressing- 
room, on which by this time, in a great 
shawl dressing-gown, supine lay our friend ; 
like the painted stone monument of the 
Chief Justice of Chester in Wardlock Church, 
you conld see on the wall sharply defined 
in shadow the solemn outline of his paunch. 
He was thinking — not as we endeavor to 
trace thought in narrative, like a speech, but 
crossing zigzag from point to point, and 
back and forward. A man requires an 
audience, and pen and paper^ to think in 
train at all. His ideas whisked and jolted 
on somewhat in this fashion : 

“ It is to be avoided^ if possible. My faith ! 
it is now just twelve o’clock ! A dangerous 
old blockhead. I must avoid it, if only for 
time to think in. There was nothing this 
evening to imply such relations — Parbleu ! 
a pleasant situation if it prove all a mistake. 
These atrabilious country men ''and women 
of mine are so odd they may mislead a fellow^ 
accustomed like me to a more intriguing 
race and a higher finesse. Ah ! no ; it is 
certainly true. The fracas will end every- 
thing. That old white monkey will be sure 
to blunder me into it. Better reconsider 
things, and wait. What shall I tell him? 
No excuse, I must go through with it, or I 
suppose he will call for pistols— curse him ! 
I’ll give Sir Jekyl a hint or two. He must 
see her, and make all ready. The old fool 
will blaze away at me, of course. Well ! I 
shall fight him or not, as I may be moved. No 
one in this country need fight now who does 
not wish it. Rather a comfortable place to 
live in were it not for the climate. I forget 
to ask Jacques whether Guy took all his lug- 
gage ! What o’clock now ? Come, by my 
faith ! it is time to decide.” 


CHAPTER LYII. 

M. VARBARRIERE DECIDES. 

Varbarbiere sat up on the side of his 
sofa. 

“ Who brought that woman, Gw3mn, here ? 
What do they want of her ?” It was only **■ 
the formula by which interrogatively to ex- 
press the suspicion that pointed at Sir Jekyl 
and his attorney. “ Soft words for me while 
tampering with my witnesses, then laugh at 


114 


GUY DEVERELL. 


me. Why did I not ask Lady Alice whether 
she really wrote for her V’ 

Thus were his thoughts various as the 
ingredients of that soup called harlequin, 
which figures at low French taverns, in 
which are floating bits of chicken, cheese, 
potato, fish, sausage, and so forth — the 
flavor of the soup itself is consistent, never- 
theless. The tone of Yarbarriere’s rumina- 
tions, on the whole, was decided. He wished 
to avert the exposure which his interference 
alone had invited. 

He looked at his watch — he had still a 
little more than a half hour for remedial 
thought and action — and now, what is to be 
done to prevent cet vieu^ singe Uanc from 
walking into the green-chamber, and keep- 
ing watch and ward at his wife’s bedside 
until that spectre shall emerge through the 
wall, whom with a curse and a stab he was 
to lay ? 

Well, what precise measures were to be 
taken ? First he must knock up Sir Jekyl 
in his room, and tell him positively that 
General Lennox was to be at Marlowe by 
one o’clock, having heard stories in town, 
for the purpose of surprising and punishing 
the guilty. Sir Jekyl would be sharp 
enough to warn Lady Jane ; or should he 
suggest that it would be right to let her 
know, in order to prevent her from being 
alarmed at the temper and melodramatics of 
her husband, and to secure that coolness and 
preparation which were necessary ? It re- 
quired some delicacy and tact, but he was 
not afraid. Next, he must meet General 
Lennox, and tell him in snbstance that he 
had begun to hope that he had himself been 
practised upon. Yes, that would do — and 
he might be as dark as he pleased on the 
subject of his information. 

Yarbarriere lighted his bed-room candle, 
intending to march forthwith to Sir Jekyl’s 
remote chamber. 

Great events, as we all know, turn some- 
times upon small pivots. Before he set out, 
he stood for a moment with his candle in one 
hand, and in his reverie he thrust the other 
into the pocket of his voluminous black 
trowsers, and there it encountered unexpect- 
edly, the letter he had that evening picked 
up on the floor of the gallery. It had quite 
dropped out of his mind. Monsieur Yarbar- 
riere was a Jupiter Scapin. He had not the 
smallest scruple about reading it, and after- 
wards throwing it into the fire, although 
it contained other men’s secrets, and was 
another man’s property. 

This was a letter from Sir Jekyl Marlowe 
to Pelter and Crowe, and was in fact upon 
the special subject of Herbert Strangways. 
Unlucky subject ! unlucky composition ! 
How there was, of course, here a great deal 
of that sort of communication which occurs 
between a clever attorney and his clever 
client, which is termed “ privileged,” and is 
not always quite fit to see the light. Hid 
ever beauty read letter of compliment and 
adoration with greater absorption ? 

Yarbarriere’s face rather whitened as he 
read, and his fat sneer was not pleasant to see. 


He got through it, and re-commenced. 
Sometimes he muttered and sometimes he 
thought ; and the notes of this oration would 
have read nearly thus : — 

“ So the question is to be opened whether 
the anonymous payment—]!^ lies, it was in 
my name .-^—through the banker protects me 
technically from pursuit ; and I’m to be ‘ run 
by the old Hebrew pack from cover to cover,’ 
over the continent— bravo !— till I vanish for 
seven years more.” Here Monsieur Yarbar- 
riere laughed in lurid contempt. 

The letter went on in the same vein— con- 
temptuous, cruel, he fancied. Everyone is 
cruel in self-defence ; and in its allusions and 
spirit was something which bitterly recalled 
the sufferings whiclx in younger and weaker 
days that same Baronet, pursuing the same 
policy, had inflicted upon him. Yarbarriere 
remembered when he was driven to the most 
ignominious and risky shifts, to ridiculous 
disguises ; he remembered his image in the 
cracked shaving-glass in the garret in his lair 
near Hotre Dame — the red wig and mous- 
tache, and the goggles. 

How easily an incautious poke will re- 
awake the dormant neuralgia of toothache ; 
and tooth, cheek, ear, throat, brain, are all 
throbbing again in the re -induced anguish ! 
With these sharp and vived recollections of 
humiliation, fear, and suffering, all stirred 
into activity by this unlucky letter, that sav- 
age and vindictive feeling which had for so 
long ruled the life of Herbert Strangways, 
and had sunk into an uneasy doze under the 
narcotic of this evening’s interview, rose up 
suddenly, wide awake and energetic. 

He looked at his watch. The minute- 
hand showed him exactly how long he had 
been reading this confidence of client to 
attorney. “ You will, will you ?” murmured 
Yarbarriere, with his jaw a little fiercely set, 
and a smile. “He will checkmate me, he 
thinks, in two or three moves. He does not 
see, clever fellow, that I will checkmate him 
in one ! ” 

How, this letter had preceded all that had 
occurred this evening to soften old animosi- 
ties — though, strictly examined, that was not 
very much. It did not seem quite logical 
then, that it should work so sudden a revo- 
lution. I cannot, however, say positively; 
for in Yarbarriere’s mind may have long 
lain a suspicion that Sir Jekyl was not now 
altogether what he used to be, that he did 
not quite know all he had inflicted, and that 
time had made him wiser, and therefore 
gentler of heart. If so, the letter had knocked 
down this hypothesis, and its phrases, one or 
two of them, were of that unlucky sort 
which not only recalled the thrill of many 
an old wound, but freshly galled that vanity 
which never leaves us, till car and eye grow 
cold, and light and sound are shut out by the 
coffin-lid. 

So Yarbarriere, being quite disenchanted, 
wondered at his own illusions, and sighed 
bitterly when he thought what a fool he had 
been so near making of himself. And think- 
ing of these things, he stared grimly on his 
watch, and by one of those movements that 


GUY DEVERELL. 


115 


betray one’s abstraction, held it to iiis 
ear, as if he had fancied it might have gone 
down. 

There it was, thundering on at a gallop. 
The tread of unseen fate approaching. Yes, 
it was time he should go. Jacques peeped in. 

“ You’ve done as I ordered ?” 

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

“ Here, lend me a hand with my cloak — 
very good. The servants, the butler, have 
they retired ?” 

“ So I believe. Monsieur.” 

“ My hat — thanks. The lights all out on 
the stairs and lobbies ?” 

“ Yes, Monsieur.” 

“ Go before — is that lighted ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

This referred to one of those little black 
lanterns which belong to Spanish melodra- 
ma, with a semi-cylindrical horn and a black 
slide. We have most of us seen such, and 
handled if not possessed them. 

“Leporello! hey, Jacques?” smiled Var- 
barriere sardonically, as he drew his short 
black cloak about him. 

“ Monsieur is always right,” acquiesced the 
man, who had never heard of Leporello 
before. 

“ Get on then.” 

And the valet before, the master following 
treading cautiously, they reached the stair 
head, where Varbarriere listened for a mo- 
ment, then descended and listened again at 
the foot, and so through the hall into the 
long gallery, near the end of which is a room 
with a conservatory. 

This they entered. The useful Jacques 
had secured the key of the glass door into 
the conservatory, which also opened the 
outer one; and Varbarriere, directing him 
to wait there quietly till his return, stepped 
out into the open air and faint moolight. A 
moment’s survey was enough to give him the 
lie of the ground, and recognizing the file of 
tufted lime-trees, rising dark in the mist he 
directed his steps thither, and speedily got 
upon the broad avenue, bordered with grass 
and guarded at either side by these rows of 
giant limes. 

On reaching the carriage-way, standing 
upon a slight eminence, Varbarriere gazed 
down the misty slope toward the gate-house, 
and t^en toward Marlow Manor, in search 
of a carriage or a human figure. Seeing 
none, he strolled on toward the gate, and 
soon didL see, airy and faint in the haze and 
distance, a vehicle approaching. It stopped 
some two hundred yards nearer the gate 
than he, a slight figure got out, and after a 
few words apparently, the driver turned 
about, and the slim, erect figure came gliding 
stiffly along in his direction. As he ap- 
proached Varbarriere stood directly before 
him. 

“ Ha ! here I am waiting. General,” said 
Varbarriere, advancing. “ I — I suppose we 
had better get on at once to the house ?” 

General Lennox met him with a nod. 

“ Don’t care, sir. Whatever you think 
best,” answered the General, as Sternly as if 
he were going into action. I 


“ Thanks for your confidence, General. I 
think so and side by side they walked in 
silence for a while toward the house. 

“ Lady Alice Redclifie here ?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“ That’s well. And, sir,” he continued, 
suddenly stopping short, and turning full 
on Varbarriere — “ for God’s sake, do you 
think it is certainly true 

“ You had better come, sir; and judge for 
yourself,” pursued Varbarriere. 

“ D- — you, sir — you think I’ll wait over 
your cursed riddles. I’d as soon wait in 
hell, sir. You don’t know sir — it’s the tor- 
tures of the damned. Egad, no man has 
a right — no man could stand it.” 

“ I think it is^ sir. I think it’s tme^ sir. 
I think it’s true. I’m nearly sure it’s true,” 
answered Varbarriere, with a pallid frown, 
not minding his anathema. “How can I 
say more ?” 

General Lennox looked for a while on the 
ground, then up and about dismally, and 
gave his neck a little military shake as if 
his collar sat uneasily. 

“ A lonely life for me, sir. I wish to God 
the villain had shot me first. I was very 
fond of her, sir — desperately fond — mad- 
ness, sir. I was thinking I would go back 
to India. Maybe you’ll advise with me, sir, 
to-morrow ? I have no one.” 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

AT THE GREEN CHAMBER. 

As they approached the house, Jacques 
who sat awaiting M. Varbarriere’s return 
behind the door facing the conservatory, was 
disagreeably surprised by a visit from the 
butler. 

“ Here I am !” exclaimed Jacques very 
cheerfully, feeling that he could not escape. 

“ Ow ! haw ! Mr. Jack, by gad 1” exclaimed 
the butler, actually jumping back in panic, 
and nearly extinguishing his candle on his 
breast. 

It was his custom, on hearing a noise or 
seeing a light, to make a ceremonious recon- 
noissance in assertion of his character, not 
of course in expectation of finding anything ; 
and here at length he thought he had lighted 
on a burglar, and from the crown of his 
head to his heels froze thrills of terror. 
“And what the devil, Mr. Jack, are you 
doing here, please, sir ?” 

“Waiting, my friend, to admit Monsieur, 
my master,” answered Jacques, who was 
adroit enough to know that it is sometimes 
cunning to be frank. 

In fact it was the apparition of M. Varbar- 
riere, in his queer hat and cloak, crossing a 
window, which had inspired the butler with 
a resolution to make his search. 

“ Haw ! dear me ! yes, I saw him, Mr. Jack, 
I did; and what, Mr. Jack, is the doors 
opened for at these hours, unbeknown to 
me ?” 

“ My most dear friend, I am taking every 
care, as you see ; but my master, he chose to 


116 


GUY DEYERELL. 


go out, and lie chose to come in. Jacques is 
nothing but what you call the latch-key.” 

“ And what is he a-doing hout o’ doors 
this time o’ night, Mr. Jack ? I never knowed 
afore sich a thing to ’appen. Why it looks 
like a stragethim, that’s what it does, Mr. 
Jack — a stragethim.” 

And the butler nodded with the air of a 
moral constable. 

“ It’s a folly. Monsieur. My faith ! a little 
?'use of love, I imagine.” 

“ You don’t mean to say he’s hout a- 
larkin ?” 

Jacques, who only conjectured the sense 
of the sentence, winked and smiled. 

“ Well, I don’t think it’s not the way he 
should be.” 

“ My master is most generous man. My 
friend, you shall see he shall know how kind 
you have been. Monsieur, my master, he is 
a prince /” murmured Jacques, eloquently, 
his fingers on the butler’s cutf, and drew back 
to read in his countenance how it worked. 

“ It must not hoccur again, Mr. Jack, wile 
ere,” replied the butler, with another grave 
shake of his head. 

Depend yourself on me,” whispered 
Jacques again in his ear, while he squeezed 
the prudent hand of the butler afiectionately. 
“ But you must go way.” 

“ I do depend on you, Mr. Jack, but I don’t 
like it, mind — I don’t like it, and I won’t say 
nothink of it till I hear more from you.” 

So the butler withdrew, and the danger 
disappeared. 

“ You will please to remember, sir,” said 
Varbarriere, as they approached the house, 
“ that this is of the nature of a military move- 
ment — a surprise ; there must be no sound — 
no alarm.” 

“ Quite so,” whispered old Lennox, with 
white lips. He was clutching something 
nervously under the wide sleeve of his loose 
drab overcoat. He stopped under the shadow' 
of a noble clump of trees about fifty steps 
away from the glass door they were ap- 
proaching. 

“ I — I almost wish, sir — I’ll go back — I 
don’t think I can go on, sir.” 

Varbarriere looked at his companion with 
an unconscious sneer, but said nothing. 

“ By , sir, if I find it true. I’ll kill him, 

sir.” 

The old man had in his gouty grip one of 
those foolish daggers once so much in vogue, 
but which have now gone out of use, and 
Varbarriere saw it glimmer in the faint 
light. 

“ Surely, Colonel Lennox, you don’t mean 
— you can’t mean — you’re not going to resort 
to violence, sir ?” 

“ By ^ gir^ he had best look to it.” 

Varbarriere placed his hnnd on the old 
man’s sleeve, he could feel the tremor of his 
thin wrist through it. 

“ General Lennox, if I had fancied that 
you could have harbored such a thought, I 
never should have brought you here.” 

The General, with his teeth clenched, made 
him no reply but a fierce nod. 

“ Remember, sir, you have the courts of 


law, and you have the code of honor — either 
or both. One step more I shall not take with 
you, if you mean what sort of violence.” 

“ What do you mean, sir ?” asked the Gen- 
eral, grimly. . 

“ I mean this, sir, you shall learn nothing 
by this night’s procedure, unless you promise 
me, upon your honor as a soldier, sir, and a 
gentleman, that you will not use that dagger 
or any other weapon.” 

General Lennox looked at him with a 
rather glassy stare. 

“ You’re right, sir, I dare say,” said Lennox, 
suddenly and helplessly. 

“ You promise ?” 

“Ay, sir.” 

“Upon your honor?” 

“ Upon my honor ; ay, sir, my honor,” 

“I’m satisfied. General. Now observe, 
you must be silent, and as noiseless as you 
can. If Sir Jekyl be apprised of your arrival, 
of course the — the experiment fails.” 

General Lennox nodded. Emerging into 
the moonlight, Varbarriere saw how pale 
and lean his face looked. 

Across the grass they pace side by side in 
silence. The glass door opened without a 
creak or a hitch. Jacques politely secured 
it, and, obeying his master’s gesture, led the 
way through the gallery to the hall. 

“ You’ll remember. General, that you ar- 
rived late; you understand? and having 
l}een observed by me, were admitted ; and — 
and all the rest occured naturally.” 

“ Yes, sir, any d — d lie you lil^e. All the 
world’s lying — wdiy should not I ?” 

At the foot of the staircase Jacques w^as 
dismissed, having lighted bed-room candles 
for the two gentlemen, so that they lost 
something of their air of Spanish conspira- 
tors, and they mounted the stairs together 
in a natural and domestic fashion. 

When they had crossed the lobby, and 
stood at the door of the dressing-room, Var- 
barriere laid his hand on General Lennox’s 
arm — 

“ Stop here a moment; you must knock 
at Lady Alice’s door over there, and get the 
key of your room. She locks the door and 
keeps tlie key at night. Make no noise, you 
know.” 

They had been fortunate hitherto in hay- 
ing escaped observation ; and Varbarriere’s 
strategy had, up to this point, quite suc- 
ceeded. 

“ Very quietly, mind,” wrhispered he, and 
withdrew behind the angle of the wall, to- 
ward the staircase. 

Old Lennox was by this time at the door 
which he had indicated, and knocked. There 
was a little fuss audible within, but no an- 
swer. He knocked again more sliarply, and 
he heard the gabble of female voices ; and 
at last a rather nervous inquiry, “Whos 
there, please ?” , ^ 

“General Lennox, who wants the key ot 
his room,” answered he, in no mood to be 
trifled with. The General was standing, 
grim as fate, and stark as Corporal 1 rim, 
bed-room candle in hand, outside her door. 

“He’s not General Lennox— send him 


117 


GUY DEVERELL 


about liis business,’^ exclaimed an imperious 
female voice from the state bed, in which 
Lady Alice was sitting, measuring some my- 
sterious drops in a graduated glass. 

“ My lady says she’s sorry she can’t find 
it to-night, sir, being at present in bed, 
please, sir.” 

“ Come, child — no nonsense — I want my 
key, and I’ll have it,” replied the General, so 
awfully that the maid recoiled. 

“ I think, my lady, he’ll be rude if he 
doesn’t get it.” 

“ What’s the man like ?” 

“ A nice-spoken gentleman, my lady, and 
dressed very respectable.” 

“ You never saw General Lennox?” 

“ No, my lady, please.” 

Neither had Lady Alice ; but she had heard 
him minutely described. 

“ A lean ugly old man is he, with white 
bristly whiskers, you know, and a white 
head, and little grey eyes, eh ?” 

They had no notion that their little con- 
fidence was so distinctly audible to the Gen- 
eral without, who stood eyeing the panel 
fiercely as a sentry would a suspicious fig- 
ure near his beat, and with fingers twitching 
with impatience to clutch his key. 

“ What sort of nose ?” demanded the un- 
seen speaker — “ long or short ?” 

“ Neither, please, my lady; bluish, rayther, 
I should say.” 

“ But it is either long or short, decidedly^ 
and I forget which,” said Lady Alice — 
“’i¥sn’t he!” 

The General ground his teeth with impa- 
tience, and knocked so sharp a signal at the 
door that Lady Alice bounced in her bed. 

“ Lord bless us 1 How dare he do that ? 
— tell him how dare he.” 

“ Lady Alice, sir, would be much obliged 
if you’d be so good not knock so loud, sir, 
please,” said the maid at the door, translat- 
ing the message. 

‘‘ Tell your mistress I’m General Lennox, 
and must have the key,” glared the General, 
and the lady’s-maid, who was growing fier- 
vous, returned. 

“ He looks, my lady, like he’d beat us, 
please, if he does not get the key, my lad}^” 

“ Sha’n’t have it, the brute ! We don’t know 
who he is— a robber, maybe. Bolt the door, 
and tell him to bring Monsieur Varbarriere 
to the lobby, and if lie says he’s General Len- 
nox he shall have the key.” 

With trembling fingers the maid .did bolt 
the door, and once more accost the soldier, 
who was chafing on the threshold. 

“ Please, sir, my lady is not well, having 
nervous pains, please sir, in her head to-night, 
and therefore would be ’appy if you would 
be so kind to bring Mister Barvarrian” (the 
name by which our corpulent friend was 
known in the servants’ hall) “ to her door, 
please, when she’ll try what, she may do to 
oblige you, sir.” 

“ They don’t know me,” said the General, 
accosting Varbarriere, who was only half a 
dozen steps removed, and whom he had re- 
joined. “ You must come to the door, they 
say, and tell them it’s all right.” 


Perhaps with some inward sense of the 
comic, Varbarriere presented himself at the 
door, when, his voice being recognised, and 
he himself reconnoitred through the key-hole 
and reported upon, the maid presented her- 
self in an extemporised drapery of cloaks and 
shawls, like a traveller in winter, and holding 
these garments together with one hand, with 
the other presented the key, peering anx- 
iously in the General’s face. 

“ Key, sir, please.” 

“ I thank you,” said the General, with a 
nod, to which she responded with such a 
courtesy as her costume permitted. The 
door shut, and as the gentlemen withdrew 
they heard the voices of the inmates again 
busy with the subject. 

“ Good-night,” whispered Varbarriere 
looking in the General’s blue eye with his 
own full and steady gaze. 

“ I know you’ll remember your promise,” 
said he. 

“ Yes— what ?” 

“ No Mence^^^ replied Varbarriere. 

“ No, of course, I said so. Good bye.” 

“ You must appear — your manner^ mind 
— just as usual. Nothing to alarm — you may 
defeat all else.” 

“ I see.” 

Varbarriere pressed his hand encou- 
ragingly. It felt like death. 

“ Don’t fear me,” said General Lennox. 
“ We’ll see — we’ll see, sir; good-night.” 

He spoke in a low, short, resolute tone, 
almost defiant ; but looked very ill. Var- 
barriere had never taken leave of a man on 
the drop, but thought that this must be like it. 

He beckoned to him as the General moved 
toward the dressing-room door, and made 
an earnest signal of silence. Lennox nodded, 
applied the key, and Varbarriere was gone. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

IN THE GREEN CHAIUBER. 

General Lennox opened the door sud- 
denly, and stood in the green chamber, hold- 
ing his candle above his temple, and staring 
with a rather wild countenance and a gath- 
ered brow to the further end of the room. 

A candle burned on the table, and the 
Bible lay beside it. No one was there but 
the inmate of the bed, who sat up with a 
scared face. He locked the door in silence, 
and put the key in his pocket. 

“ Who ’s there ? — who is it ? O my God ! 
Arthur, is it you ?” she cried. It was not a 
welcome. It was as if she had seen a ghost — 
but she smiled. 

“ You’re well ? quite well ? and happy ? 
no doubt happy?” said Lennox, setting 
down his candle on the table near the bed, 
“ and glad to see me ?” 

“ Yes, Arthur; Arthur, what’s the matter? 
You’re ill — are you ill ?” 

“ Ho ! no, very well, quite well — very well 
indeed.” 

There was that in his look and manner 
that told her she was ruined. She froze 


118 


GUY DEVERELL. 


with a horror she had never dreamed of 
before. 

“ There’s something, Arthur— thei;e is — ^you 
won’t tell me.” 

“That’s strange, and you tell me every- 
thing.” 

“ What do you mean^ sir ? Oh, Arthur, 
what do you mean ?” 

“ Mean ! Nothing I” 

“I was afraid you were angry, and I’ve 
done nothing to vex you — nothing. You 
looked so angry — it’s so unreasonable and 
odd of you. But I am glad to see you, 
though you don’t seem glad to see me. 
You’ve been a long time away, Arthur, in 
London, very long. I hope all your busi- 
ness is settled — all well settled, I hope. And 
I’m very glad to hear you’re not ill— indeed 
I am. Why are you vexed ?” 

“ Vexed ! ho ! I’m vexed, am I ? that’s odd.” 

She was making a desperate effort to seem 
as usual, and talked on. 

“ We have had old Lady Alice Redcliffe 
here, my chaperon, all this while, if you 
please, and takes such ridiculous care of me, 
and locks me into my room every night. She 
means kindly, but it is very foolish.” 

“Yes, it is, d— d foolish.” 

“We have been employed very much as 
usual, walking, and driving, and croquet. 
Beatrix and I have been very much together, 
and Sir Paul and Lady Blunket still here. I 
don’t think we have had any arrival since you 
left us. Mr. Guy Strangways has gone away, 
and Monsieur Yarbarriere returned to-day.” 

She was gabbling as menily as she could, 
feeling all the time on the point of fainting, 

“ And the diamonds came ?” the General 
said, suddenly, with a sort of laugh. 

“ Oh ! yes, the diamonds, so beautiful. I 
did not thank you in my letter, not half 
enough; they are beautiful, so exquisitely 
beautiful, brilliants, and so becoming; you 
have no idea. I hope you got my letter. In- 
deed I felt it all, every word, Arthur, only I 
could not say half what I wished. Don’t 
you believe me, Arthur ?” 

“ Lie down, woman, and take your sleep ; 
you sleep well^ you all do, of course you 
sleep ? Lie down.” 

“ You are angry, Arthur ; you are excited ; 
something has happened, something bad, 
what is it ? For God’s sake, Arthur, tell me 
what it is. Why won’t you tell me ?” 

“ Nothing, nothing strange, quite common.” 

“ Oh ! Arthur, tell me at once, or kill me. 
You look as if you hated me.” 

“ Hate you ! There’s a hereafter. God sees.” 

“I can’t understand you, Arthur; you 
wish to distract me, I’d rather know any- 
thing. For mercy’s sake speak out.” 

“ Lie you down, and wait.” 

She did lie down. The hour of judgment 
had come as a thief in the night. The blood 
in her temples seemed to drum on the pil- 
low. There was not a clear thought in her 
brain, only the one stunning consciousness. 

“ He knows all ! I am ruined.” Yet the 
feminine instinct of finesse was not quite 
overpowered. 

Having placed the candle on the chimney- 


piece, so that the curtain at the foot of the 
bed threw its shadow over that recess in 
which the sorcerer Varbarriere had almost 
promised to show the apparition, old Lennox 
sat down at the bedside, next this mysterious 
point of observation. Suddenly it crossed 
him, as a break of moonlight will the black- 
est night of storm, that he must act more 
wisel}^ Had he not alarmed his wife, what 
signal might not be contrived to warn off her 
guilty accomplice? 

“ Jennie,” said he, with an effort, in a more 
natural tone, “ I’m tired, very tired. We’ll 
sleep. I’ll tell you all in the morning. Go to 
sleep.” 

“ Good-night,” she murmured. 

“ That will do ; go to sleep,” he answered. 

Gently, gently, she stole a peep at that 
pretty watch that stood in its little slanting 
stand at her bedside. There was still twenty 
minutes — Heaven be praised for its mercy ! 
and she heard old Lennox at the far side of 
this “ great bed of Ware,” making an osten- 
tation of undressing. His boots tumbled on 
the floor. She heard his watch-guard jingle 
on the stand, and his keys and purse dropped 
in turn on the table. She heard him adjust 
the chair, as usual, on which he was wont 
to deposit his clothes as he removed them ; 
she fancied she even heard him yawn. 
Her heart was throbbing as though it would 
choke her, and she was praying as she never 
prayed before, for a reprieve. And yet her 
respiration was long and deep, as if in the 
sleep she was counterfeiting. , 

Lennox, at the other side, put off his muff- 
ler, his outer coat, the frock-coat he wore, the 
waistcoat. She dared not look round to ob- 
serve his progress. But at last he threw 
himself on the bed with a groan of fatigue, 
pulled the coverlet over him, and lay vi-thout 
motion, like a man in need of rest. 

Lady Jane listened. She could not hear 
him breathe. She waited some flve minutes, 
and then she murmured, “Arthur.” No 
answer. “ Arthur^ Again no answer ; and 
she raised herself on her elbow, cautiously, 
and listened ; and after a little pause, quick 
as light she got out of bed, glided to the 
chimney piece, and lighted a taper at the can- 
dle there, listened again for a moment, and on 
tiptoe, in bare feet, glided round the foot of 
the bed, and approached the recess at the 
other side of the bed’s head, and instantly 
her Angers were on one of those little flowers 
in the ormolu arabesque that runs along the 
edge of the wooden casing. 

Before she could turn it a gouty hand over 
her shoulder took hold of hers, and, with a 
low sudden cry, she saw her husband. 

“ Can’t I do that for you ? What is it ?” 
said he. 

Her lips were white, and she gazed in his 
face without saying a word. 

He was standing there unbooted, in his 
trowsers, with those crimson silk suspenders 
on, with the embroidery of forget-me-nots, 
which she had described as “ her work”— I 
am afraid inaccurately, a love-token — hy- 
pocrisy on hypocrisy. 

Asmodeus, seated on the bed’s head 


GUY DEVERELL 


119 


smirked down sardonically on the tableau, 
and clapped his apish hands. 

“ Get to your bed there. If you make a 
sign, by , I’ll kill you. 

She made no answer. She gazed at him 
dumbly. He was not like himself. He looked 
like a villain. 

He did not lie down again. He sat by the 
little table, on which his watch, his keys, 
and loose shillings lay. The night was chill, 
but he did not feel it then. 

He sat in his shirt-sleeves, his chin on his 
breast, eyeing from under his stern white 
brows the shadowy arch through which the 
figure was to emerge. 

Suddenly he heard the swift steps of little, 
naked feet on the carpet come round the foot 
of the bed, and his wife wildly threw herself 
at his feet, and clasped them in an agony. 
He could feel every sinew in her arms vibrate 
in the hysterical strain of her entreaty. 

“ Oh, Arthur ! oh, darling, take me away 
from this, for God’s sake. Come down with 
me ; come to the drawing-room, or to the 
dressing-room; take me away; j^ou’ll be 
happier, indeed you will, than ever you 
were ; you’ll never repent it, darling ; do 
what I say. I’ll be the best wife, indeed I 
will. See, I’ve been reading my Bible ; look 
at it. I’m quite changed — quite changed. 
God only knows how changed. Oh, Arthur, 
Arthur, if you ever loved me, take me away ; 
come from this room, come, you’ll never re- 
pent it. Oh, Arthur, be wise, be merciful ! 
The more you forgive the more you’ll be 
loved. It is not I, but God says that. I’m 
praying to you as I would to Him, and He 
forgives us when we implore : take pity on 
me ; you’ll never be sorry. Have mercy, 
Arthur, have mercj^ — you are kind, I know 
you’re kind, you would not ruin your 
wretched elennie. Oh, take pity before it is 
too late, and take me from this dreadful 
room. You’ll be glad, indeed you will ; 
there never was such a wife as I’ll be to you, 
the humblest, the most loving, and you’ll be 
happier than ever you were. Oh, Arthur, 
Arthur, I’m praying to you as if you were 
God, for mercy ; don’t say no ! Oh, can you ; 
can you ; can you 

General Lennox was moved, but not from 
his course. He never saw before such a 
face of misery. It was like the despairing 
pleading of the last day. But alas ! in this 
sort of quarrel there can be no compromise ; 
reconciliation is dishonor. 

“ Go and lie down. It’s all over between 
us,” said he in a tone that left her no 
room for hope. With a low, long cry, and 
her fingers clasped over her forehead, she 
retraced her steps, and lay down, and quietly 
drew her icy feet into the bed, awaiting the 
inevitable. Lennox resumed his watch. 


CHAPTER LX. 

THE MORNING. 

Monsieur Varbarriere was standing all 
this while with his shadow to the door-post 


of the Window dressing-room, and his dark 
eyes fixed on the further door which admits 
to the green chamber. His bed-room candle, 
which was dwindling, stood on the table at 
his elbow. 

‘‘ He heard a step crossing the lobby 
softly toward his own room, and whispered, 

“ Who’s there ?” 

Jacques Duval, at Monsieur’s service.’ 

Monsieur took a candle, and crossed the 
floor to meet Jacques, who was approach- 
ing, and he signed to him to stop. He 
looked at his watch. It was now twenty 
minutes past one. 

“Jacques,” said he in a whisper, “there’s 
no mistake about those sounds ?” 

“ No, Monsieur, not at all.” 

“ Three nights running, you say ?” 

“ Monsieur is perfectly right.” 

“ Steps, you say ?” 

“ Yes, sir, footsteps.” 

“ It could not have been the wind, the 
shaking or creaking of the floor or win- 
dows ?” 

“ Ah no. Monsieur, not at all as that.” 

“ The steps quick, not slow ; was’nt it !” 

“ Quick, sir, as one in haste and treading 
lightly would walk.” 

“And this as you sat in the butler’s 
room ?” 

“ Monsieur recollects exactly.” 

Yarbarriere knew that the butler’s room 
exactly underlay that dingy library that 
abutted on Sir Jekyl’s bed-chamber, and on 
that account had placed his sentinel to 
watch there. 

“ Always about the same time ?” he asked. 

“Very nearly. Monsieur, a few minutes, 
sometimes before, sometimes after ; only 
trifle, in effect mthing,'^ answered Jacques. 

“ Jacques, you must leave my dooi open, 
so that, should I want you, you can hear 
me call from the door" of that dressing- 
room ; take care you keep awake, but don’t 
move.” 

So .saying, Varbarriere returned to his 
place of observation. He set down his 
candle near the outer door, and listened, 
glowering as before at the far one. The 
crisis was near at hand, so near that, on 
looking at his watch again, he softly ap- 
proached the door of the green chamber, 
and there, I am sorry to say, he listened 
diligently. 

But all was disappointingly silent for a 
while longer. Suddenly he heard a noise. 

A piece of furniture shoved aside it seemed, 
a heavy step or two, and the old man’s 
voice exclaim “ Ha !” with an interrogatory 
snarl in it. There was a little laugh, fol- 
lowed by a mutfled blow or a fall, and a 
woman’s cry, sharp and momentary — “ Oh 
God ! oh, God !” and a gush of smothered / 
sobs, and the General’s grim voice calling 
“ silence !” and a few stern woads from him, 
and fast talking between them, and Lady 
Jane calling for light, and then more wilii 
sobbing. There had been no sound of a 
struggle. 

Varbarriere stood, stooping, scowling, 
open-mouthed at the door, with his fingers 


120 


GUY DEVEKELL. 


on the handle; hardly breathing. At last he 
gasped — 

“ That d old ape ! has he hurt her ?” 

He listened, but all was silent. Did he still 
hear smothered sobs? He could not be 
certain. His eyes were glaring on the panel 
of the door; but on his retina was a ghostly 
image of beautiful Lady Jane, blood-stained, 
with glazing eyes, like Cleopatra dying of 
her asps. 

After a while he heard some words from 
the General in an odd ironical tone. Then 
came silence again — continued silence — half 
an hour’s silence, and then a sound of some 
one stirring. 

He knew the tread of the General about 
the room. Whatever was to occur had 
occurred. That was his conclusion. Perhaps 
the General was coming to his room io look 
for him. It was time he should withdraw, 
and so he did. 

“ You may go to your bed, Jacques, and 
come at the usual hour.” 

So with his accustomed civilities. Monsieur 
Jacques disappeared. But old Lennox did 
not visit Varbarriere, nor even emerge from 
his room. 

After an hour Varbarriere revisited the 
dressing-room next the green chamber. He 
waited long without hearing anything, and 
at length he heard a step — was it the Gen- 
eral’s again, or Sir Jekyl’s ? — whoever it was, 
he seemed to be fidgeting about the room, 
collecting and packing his things, Yarbar- 
riere fancied, for a journey ; and then he 
heard him draw the writing-table a little, and 
place a chair near it, and as the candle was 
shining through the keyhole, he supposed 
the General had placed himself to write 
at it. 

Something had happened, he felt sure. 
Had Lennox despatched Sir Jekyl, or Sir 
Jekyl wounded the General ? Or had Lady 
Jane been killed ? Or was all right, and no 
one of the actors stretched on the green baize 
carpet before the fioats ? He would believe 
that, and got quickly to his bed, nursing that 
comfortable conclusion the while. But when 
he shut his eyes, a succession of pale faces 
smeared with blood came and looked at him, 
and would not be ordered away. So he 
lighted his candle again and tried to exorcise 
these visitors with the pages of a French 
Review, until very late sleep overtook him. 

Jacques was in his room at the usual hour, 
eight o’clock ; and Varbarriere started up in 
bed at sound of his voice, with a confused 
anticipation of a catastrophe. But the cheer- 
ful squire had nothing to relate except how 
charming was the morning, and to hand a 
letter to Monsieur. 

Varbarriere’s mind was not upon letters 
that morning, but on matters nearer home. 

‘‘ General Lennox has not been down- 
stairs yet V” 

“ No, Monsieur.” 

“ Nor Sir Jekyl ?” 

“ No, Monsieur.” 

“ Where’s my watch ? there — yes — eight 
o’clock. H’m. When does Lady Jane’s 
maid go to her.” 


Not until the General has advanced him- 
self pretty well in his toilet, the entrance 
being through his dressing-room.” 

“ The General used to be down early ?” 

“ Yes, Monsieur, half-past eight, I remem- 
ber.” 

“ And Sir Jekyl ?” 

“ About the same hour.” 

“ And Lady Jane is called, I suppose, a 
little before that hour ?” 

“ Yes, about a quarter past eight, Mon- 
sieur. Will Monsieur please to desire his cup 
of coffee?” 

“Yes, everything — quickly — I wish to 
dress ; and what’s this ? a letter.” 

It was from Guy Deverell, as Varbarriere 
saw at a glance, and not through the post. 

“ My nephew hasn’t come ?” sternly de- 
manded Varbarriere, with a kind of start, on 
reading the signature, which he did before 
reading the letter. 

“ No, Monsieur, a young man has con- 
veyed it from Slowton.” 

Whereupon Varbarriere, with a striped silk 
nightcap of many colors pending over his 
corrugated forehead, read the letter through 
the divided bed-curtains. 

His nephew, it appeared, had arrested his 
course at Birmingham, and turned about, 
and reached Slowton again about the hour 
at which M. Varbarriere had met old Lennox 
in the grounds of Marlowe. 

“What a fanfaronnade ! These young 
fellows— what asses they are !” sneered Var- 
barriere. 

It was not, in truth, very wise. ^ This 
handsome youth announced his intention to 
visit Marlowe that day to see Monsieur Var- 
barriere for, perhaps, the last time before 
setting forth for Algeria; where he knew a 
place would at once be found for him in the 
ranks of those brave soldiers whom France 
had sent there. His gratitude to his uncle 
years could never abate,' but it was time he 
should cease to task his generosity, and he was 
quite resolved henceforward to fight his way 
single-handed in the word, as so many other 
young fellows did. Before taking his de- 
parture he thought he should present himself 
to say his adieux to M. Varbierriere— even to 
his host. Sir Jekyl Marlowe ; and there was a 
good deal more of such stuff. 

“ Sir Jekyl! stuff! His uncle! lanterns ! 
He wants to see that pretty Miss Beatrix 
once xnovG \ ■'Goila tout ! He has choseh his 
time well. Who knows what confusion may 
be here to-day ? No matter.” 

By this time he had got his great quilted 
dressing-gown about him, in the folds of 
which Varbarriere looked more unwieldy 
still than in his drawing-room costume. 

“I, must read about that Algeria; have 
they got any diseases there ? plague— yellow 
fever — ague ! By my faith ! if the place is 
tolerably healthy, it would be no such bad 
plan to let the young fool take a turn on that 
gridiron, and learn thoroughly the meaning 
of independence.” 

So Monsieur Varbarriere, with a variety 
of subjects to think over, pursued his toilet. 


GUY DEYERELL. 


121 


CHAPTER LXI. 

THE doctor’s visit. 

Sir Jekyl’s hour was eight o’clock, and 
punctually his man, Tomlinson, knocked at 
his door. 

“Hollo! Is that Tomlinson?” answered 
the voice from within. ' 

“Yes, sir, please.” 

“ See, Tomlinson, I say, it’s very ridicu- 
’ lous; but I’m hanged if I can stir, that 
confounded gout has got hold of my foot 
again. You’ll have to force the door. Send 
some one down to the town for Doctor Pratt 
— d’ye see ? — and get me some handkerchiefs, 
and don’t he all day.” 

The faithful Tomlinson listening, with a 
snowy shirt and a pair of socks on his arm 
and the tips of his fingers fiddling with the 
door-handle, listening at the other side of the 
panel, with forehead inclined forward and 
mouth open, looked, I am sorry to say, a 
good deal amused, although he answered in 
a concerned tone ; and departed to execute 
his orders. 

“ Guv’nor took in toe again,” he mur- 
mured with a solemn leer, as he paused 
before the butler’s broad Marseilles waistcoat. 

“ As how ?” inquired he. 

“ The gout ; can’t stir a peg, and he’s 
locked* hisself in, as usial, over night.” 

“ Lawk !” exclaimed the butler, and I dare 
say both would have liked to laugh, but 
neither cared to compromise himself. 

“ Chisel and mallet, Mr. Story, we shall 
want, if you please, and some one to go at 
once for the doctor to the town.” 

“ I know — yes— hinstantly,” ejaculated the 
butler. 

So things proceeded. Pratt, M. D., the 
medical practitioner of the village, whose 
yellow hall door and broad brass plate, and 
shop window round the corner, with the two 
time-honored glass jars, one of red the other 
of green fiuid, representing physic in its most 
attractive hues, were not more widely known 
than his short, solemn, red face, blue chin, 
white whiskers, and bald pate, was roused 
by the messenger’s summons at his toilet, 
and peeped over his muslin blind to discover 
the hand that was ringing so furiously among 
his withered hollyhocks; and at the same 
time Tomlinson and the butler were working 
with ripping chisel, mallet, and even a poker, 
to affect an entrance. 

“ Ha 1 Dives,” said the Baronet, as that 
divine, who had heard the sad news, pre- 
sented himself at the now open door. “ I 
sent for you, my dear fellow. A horrid 
screw in my left toe this time. Such a spoil- 
sport ! curse it, but it won’t be anything. 
I’ve sent for Pratt, and you’ll tell the people 
at breakfast, you know, that I’m a prisoner ; 
only a trifle though, I hope— dowm to dinner 
maybe. There’s the gong — run down, like a 
dear fellow.” 

“ Hot flying — well fixed in the toe, eh ?” 
said Dives, rather anxiously, for he did not like 
Sir Jekyl’s constrained voice and sunken look. 

“ Quite fixed — blazing away— just the thing 
Pratt likes— confounded pain though. Now 


run down, my dear fellow, and make my 
.excuses, but say I hope to be down to dinner, 
mind.” 

So, with another look. Dives went down, 
not quite comfortable, for on the whole he 
liked Jekyl, who had done a great deal for 
him ; he did not like tragedies’, he was very 
comfortable as he stood, and quite content to 
await the course of nature. 

“ Is that d d doctor emr coming?” 

asked Sir Jekyl, dismally. 

“ He’ll be here, sir, please, in five minutes 
—so he said, sir.” 

“ I know, but there’s been ten since, curse 
him.” 

“ Shall I send again, sir ?” asked Tomlinson. 
“ Do ; say I’m in pain, and can’t think 
what the devil’s keeping him.” 

Beatrix in a moment more came running 
up in consternation. 

“ How do you feel now, papa ? Gout, is it 
not?” she asked, having obtained leave to 
come in ; “ not very bad, I hope.” 

The Baronet smiled with an effort. 

“ Gout’s never very pleasant, a hot thumb- 
screw on one’s toe, my dear, but that’s all ; 
it will be nothing. Pratt’s coming, and he’ll 
get me right in a day or two — only the great 
toe. I beg pardon for naming it so often — 
very waspish though, that’s all. Don’t stay 
away, or the people will fancy something 
serious ; and possibly I may be down, in a 
slipper though, to dinner." So run down 
Trixie, darling.” 

And Trixie, with the same lingering look 
that Dives had cast on him, only more 
anxious, betook herself to the parlor as he 
had desired. 

In a little while Doctor Pratt had arrived. 
As he toddled through the hall, he encount- 
ered the Rev. Dives on his way to the break- 
fast parlor. Pratt had suffered some rough 
handling and damage at the hands of Time, 
and Dives was nothing the better of the sar- 
castic manipulations of the same ancient god, 
since they had last met. Still they instantly 
recognised, and shook hands cordially, and 
when the salutation was over — 

“ Well, and what’s wrong with the Baro- 
net ?” 

“ Gout ; he drinks two glasses of port, I’ve 
observed, at dinner, and it always disagrees 
with him. Pray do stop it — the port, I 
mean.” 

“ Hand or foot?” 

“ The great toe — the best place, isn’t it ?” 

“ No better, sir. There’s nothing, nothing 
of the stomach ? — I brought this in case^" and 
he held up a phial. 

“ No, but I don’t like his looks ; he looks 
so haggard and exhausted.” 

“ H’m, I’d like to see him at once ; I don’t 
know his room though.” 

Sb Dives put him in charge of a guide, and 
the}’- parted. 

“Well, Sir Jekyl, how d’ye do, hey? and 
how’s all this ? Old enemy, hey— all in tlie 
foot — fast in the toe — isn’t he ?” began the 
Doctor as he entered the Baronet’s room. 

“ Ay, in the toe. Sit down there, Pratt, 
beside me.” 


122 


GUY DEVEKELL. 


“ Ah, ha ! nervous ; you think I’ll knock 
him, eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! No, no, no ! Don’t 
be afraid. Nothing wrong in the stomach — 
no chill — retching ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Head all right, too ; nothing queer 
there ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Nothing in the knuckles — old acquaint- 
ance, you know, when you meet, sometimes 
a squeeze by the hand, eh ? Ha, ha, ha !” 

“ No — nothing in the hand,” said the Bar- 
onet, a little testily. 

“ Nor any wandering sensations here, you 
know, and there, hey ?” said the little fellow, 
sitting down briskly by his patient. 

“ No ; curse it.” 

“ Troublesome to talk, hey ?” asked Pratt, 
observing that he seemed faint, and talked 
low and with effort. 

“ No—yes — that is, tired'' 

“ I see, no pain ; all nicely fixed in the toe ; 
plat could not be better, and what do you 
refer it to ? By Jove, it’s eighteen, nineteen 
months since your last ! When you came 
doT^n to Dartbrooke, for the Easter, you 
know, and wrote to me for the thing with 

the ether, hey ? You’ve been at that d d 

bin. I’m afraid, the forbidden fruit ? Egad, 
sir, I call it fiuid gout, and the crust nothing 
but chalkstone.” 

“ No — I haven't J' croaked the Baronet, 
savagely. 

“ Ha, ha, ha !” laughed the Doctor, drum- 
ming on his fat knee with his stethoscope. 
“Won’t admit — won’t allow, hey?” As he 
spoke he was attempting to take him by the 
WTist. 

“ Pulse ? How are we there, eh ?” 

“ Turn that d d fellow out of the room, 

and bolt the door, will you ?” muttered Sir 
Jekyl, impatiently. 

“ Hey ? I see. How are you^ Mr, Tomlin- 
son — no return of that bronchial annoyance, 
eh ? I’ll ask you just now — we’ll just make 
Sir Jekyl Marlowe a little more comfortable 
first, and I’ve a question or two — we’d be as 
well alone, you see — and do you mind? 
You’ll be in the way, you know ; we may 
want you, you know.” 

So the docile Tomlinson withdrew with a 
noiseless alacrity, and Doctor Pratt, in defer- 
ence to his patron, bolted the mangled door. 

“ See, Pratt, you’re tiring me to death, 
with your beastly questions. Wait, will you ? 
Sit down. You’ll promise me you won’t tell 
this to anyone.” 

“What?” 

“Do hold your tongue, like a dear fellow, 
and listen. Upon your honor, you don’t tell, 
till I give you leave, what’s the matter with 
me. Come — d you ; yes or no ?” 

“ Well, you know I must if you insist ; but 
I’d rayther not.” 

“ You must. On your honor you won’t 
tell, and you’ll call it gout ?” 

“ Why — why, if it is not gout, eh ? don’t 
you see ? it would not do." 

“ Well, good morning to you. Doctor Pratt, 
for I’m hanged if you prescribe for me on 
any other terms.” 


“ Well, don’t you see, I say I must, if you 
insist, don’t you see ; it may be— it may be — 
egad ! it might be very serious to let you 
wait.” 

“ You promise?” 

“Yes, IcZo. There!" 

“ Gout, mind, and nothing else ; ^1 gout, 
upon your honor.’ 

“ Aw, well ! Tes." 

“ Upon your honor ; why the devil can’t 
you speak ?” 

“ Upon my honor, of course.” 

“You kill me, making^ me talk. Well, 
’tisn’t in the toe — it’s up here,” and he uncov- 
ered his right shoulder and chest, showing 
some handkerchiefs and his night-shirt 
soaked in blood. 

“ What the devil’s all this ?” exclaimed the 
Doctor, rising suddenly, and the ruddy tints 
of his face fading into a lilac hue. “ Why — 
why, you’re hurt; egad, you’re hurt. We 
must examine it. What is it with — how the 
plague did it all come about ?” 

“ The act of God,” answered Sir Jekyl, 
with a faint irony in his tone. 

“ The — ah ! — well, I don’t understand.” 

“ I mean the purest accident.” 

“ Bled a lot, egad ! These things seem 
pretty dry — ^bleeding away still f You must 
not keep it so hot— the sheet only.” 

“ I think it’s stopped — the things are stick- 
ing — I feel them.” 

“ So much the better ; but we must not 
leave it this way — and — and I daren’t disturb 
it, you know, without help, so we’ll have to 
take Tomlinson into confidence.” 

“ ’Gad, you’ll do no such thing.” 

“ But, my dear sir, I must tell you, this 
thing, whatever it is, looks very serious. I 
can tell you, it’s not to be trified with, and 
this sort of nonsense may be as much as your 
life’s worth, egad.” 

“ You shan’t,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ You’ll allow me to speak with your 
brother ?” 

“ No, you shan’t.” 

“ Ho, now. Sir Jekyl, really now” 

“ Promised your honor.” 

“ ’Tisn’t a fair position,” said the practi- 
tioner, shaking his head, with his hands 
stuffed in his pockets, and staring dismally at 
the blood - stained linen. “ I’ll tell you 
what we must do — there are two supernu- ^ 
meraries I happen to know at the county 
hospital, and Hicks is a capital nurse. I’ll 
write a line and they’ll send her here. , I 
There’s a room in there, eh ? yes, well, she 
can be quartered, there^ and talk with no | 

one, but you and me, in fact, see no one | 

except in your presence, don’t you see ? and 
egad, we have her, or I’ll give up the 
case.'* 

“ Well, yes ; send for her.” 


CHAPTER LXII. 

THE PATIENT INTEREOGATED. 

So Doctor Pratt scribbled a few lines on 
the back of his card, and Tomlinson was sum- 
moned to the door, and told to expedite its 


GUY DEVERELL. 


123 


despatch, and “ send one of the men in a dog- 
cart as hard as he could peg, and to be sure 
to see Doctor Hoggins,” who had been an ap- 
prentice once of honest Pratt’s. 

“ Tell her not to wait for dressing, or pack- 
ing, or anything. She’ll come just as she is, 
and we’ll send again for her things, d’ye 
mind ? and let him drive quick. It’s only 
two miles, he must not be half an hour about 
it and in a low whisper, with a frown and 
a nod, he added to Tomlinson on the lobby, 
“ I want her here.” 

So he sat down very grave by Sir Jekyl, 
and took his pulse, very low and inflamma- 
tory, he thought. 

“ You lost a good deal of blood ? It is not 
all here, eh ?” 

“ Ho ; I lost some beside.” 

“ Mind, now, don’t move. You may bring 
it on again ; and you’re not in a condition to 
spare any. How did it happen ?” 

“ A knife or something.” 

“A thrust, eh? Hot a cut; I mean a 
stair 

“ Yes.” 

“ About how long ago ? What hour?” 

Sir Jekyl hesitated. 

“ Oh ! now come. Sir Jekyl, I beg pardon, 
but I really must know i\\Q facts r 

“ Remember your promise — awfully tired.” 

“ Certainly. What o’clock ?” 

“ Between one and two.” 

“ You must have some claret and he 
opened the door and issued orders accord- 
ingly. The Doctor had his Angers on his, 
pulse by this time. 

“ Give me some water ; I’m dying of 
thirst,” said the patient. 

The Doctor ol^yed. 

“ And there’s no gout at n:1, then?” said he. 

“Hot a bit,” answered Sir Jekyl, pettish- 
ly ; his temper and his breath seemed to be 
failing him a little. 

“ Did you feel faint when it happened, or 
after ?” 

“ Just for a moment when it happened, 
then pretty well ; and when I got here, in a 
little time, worse, very faint ; I think I did 
faint, but a little blood always does that for 
me. But it’s not deep, I know by the feel- 
only the muscle.” 

“ H’m. I shan’t disturb these things till 
the nurse comes; glad there’s no gout, no 
complication.” 

The claret-jug was soon at the bedside, and 
the Doctor helped his patient to a few spoon- 
fuls, and felt his pulse again. 

“ I must go home for the things, d’ye see ? 
I shan’t be long away though. Here, Tom- 
linson, you’ll give Sir Jekyl a spoonful or a 
glassful of this claret, d’ye mind, as often as he 
requires it. About every ten minutes a little 
tc wet his lips; and niind, now Sir Jekyl, 
drink any quantity rather than let yourself go 
down.” 

. As he went from the room he signed to 
Tomlinson, who followed him quietly. 

“ See, now, my good fellow, this is rather 
a serious case, you understand me ; and he 
must not be let down. Your master. Sir 
Jekyl, I say, he must be kept up. Keep a 


little claret to his lips, and if you see any 
pallor or moisture in his face, give it him by 
a glassful at a time ; and go on, do you mind, 
till he begins to look natural again, for he’s 
in a very critical state ; and if he were to 
faint, d’ye see, or anything, it might be a very 
serious thing; and you’d better ring for 
another bottle or two ; but don’t leave him on 
any account.” 

They were interrupted here by a tapping 
in Sir Jekyl’ s room. Lying on his back, he 
was rapping with his penknife on the table. 

“ Why the plague don’t you come ?” he mut- 
tered, as Tomlinson drew near. “ Where’s 
Pratt ? tell him I want him.” 

“ Hey — no— no pain V' asked the Doctor. 

“ Ho ; I want to know — I want to know 
what the devil you’ve been saying to him 
out there.” 

“ nothing ; only a direction.” 

“Do you think — do you think I’m in 
danger r said Sir Jekyl. 

“ Well, no. You needn’t be if you mind, 
but — but don’t refuse the claret, mind, and 
don’t be afraid of it if you feel a — a sinking, 
you know, any quantity; and I’ll be back 
before the nurse comes from the hospital; 
and — and don’t be excited, for you’ll do very 
well if you’ll only do as I tell you.” 

The Doctor nodded, standing by the bed, 
but he did not look so cheerfully as he spoke. 

“ I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Don’t 
be fldgety, you know ; don’t stir, and you’ll 
do very nicely, I say.” 

/ When the Doctor was gone, Sir Jekyl 
said — 

“ Tomlinson.” 

“ Yes, sir, please.” 

“ Tomlinson, come here ; let me see you,’* 

“ Yes, Sir Jekyl ; sir” 

“I say, Tomlinson, you’ll tell the truth, 
mind.” 

“ Yes, sir, please.” 

“ Did that fellow say anything ?” 

“ Yes, sir, please.” 

“ Out with it.” 

“ ’Twas claret. Sir Jekyl, please, sir.” 

“ Hone of your d d lies, sir. I heard 

him say “ serious.” What was it ?” 

“ Please, sir, he said as how you were to be 
kep up, sir, which it might be serious if 
otherwise. So he said, sir, please, it might 
be serious if you was not properly kep up 
with claret, please, sir.” 

“ Come, Tomlinson — see I must know. 
Did he say I was in a bad way — likely to die ? 
come.” His face was certainly hollow and 
earthly enough just then to warrant fore- 
bodings. 

“ Ho, sir ; certainly not, sir. Ho, sir, please, 
nothing of the kind.” 

The Baronet looked immeasurably more 
like himself. 

“ Give me some wine— a glass,” said he. 

The Doctor, stumping away rapidly to his 
yellow door, and red and green twin bottles, 
in the village, was thinking how the deuce 
this misadventure of Sir Jekyl’s had be- 
fallen. The Baronet’s unlucky character was 
well known wherever he resided or had prop- 
erty. 


124 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Who the devil did it, I wonder ?” con- 
jectured the Doctor. “ Two o’clock at night. 
Some pretty fury with a scissors, maybe. 
We’ll know time enough ; these things always 
come out — always come out, egad ! It’s a 
shame for him getting into scrapes at his 
time of life.” 

In the breakfast-parlor, very merry w’as 
the party then assembled, notwithstanding 
the absence of some of its muster-roll. Lady 
Jane Lennox, an irregular breakfaster, stood 
excused. Old Lady Alice was no more ex- 
pected than the portrait of Lady Mary in 
her bed-room. General Lennox had busi- 
ness that morning, and was not particularly 
inquired after. Sir Jekyl, indeed, was 
missed — bustling, good-natured, lively — his 
guests asked after him with more than a 
conventional solicitude. 

Well, and how is papa now?” inquired 
Sir Paul, who knew what gout was, and 
being likely to know it again, felt a real 
interest in the Baronet’s case. “ No acute 
pain, I hope ?” 

“ I’m afraid he is in pain, more than he 
admits,” answered Beatrix. 

“ Tomlinson told me it’s all the — the ex- 
tremity though that’s well. Intelligent fel- 
low, Tomlinson. Mine is generally what 
they call atonic, not attended with much 
pain, you know ;” and he illustrated his 
disquisition by tendering his massive mul- 
berry knuckles for the young lady’s contem- 
plation, and fondling them with the glazed 
fingers of the other hand, while his round 
blue eyes stared, with a slow sort of wonder, 
in her face, as if he expected a good deal in 
the way of remark from the young lady to 
mitigate his astonishment. 

Lady Blunket, who was beside her, re- 
lieved this embarrassment, and nodding at 
her ear, said — 

“ Flannel — flannel^ chiefly. Sir Paul, 
there, his medical man. Doctor Duddle, we 
have great confidence in Mm — relies very 
much on warmth. My poor father used to 
take Regent’s — Regent’s — I forget what — a 
hotile. But Doctor Duddle would not hear 
of Sir Paul there attempting to put it to his 
lips. Regent’s — wTiat is it ? I shall forget 
my own name soon ! Water is it ? At all 
events he won’t hear of it — diet and flannel, 
that’s his method. My poor father, you 
know, died of gout, quite suddenly, at 
Brighton. Cucumber, they said.” 

And Lady Blunket, overcome by the re- 
collection, touched her eyes with her hand- 
kerchief. 

Cucumber and salmon, it was, I recol- 
lect,” said Sir Paul, with a new accession of 
intelligence. 

“ But he passed away most happily, Miss 
Marlowe,” continued Lady Blunket. I have 
some verses of poor mamma’s. She was mry 
religious, you know ; they have been very 
much admired.” 

“ Ay — yes,” said Sir Paul, “ he was helped 
twice — very imprudent !” 

“ I was mentioning dear mamma’s verses, 
you remember.” 

Sir Paul not being quite so well up in 


this aspect of the case, simply grunted and 
became silent ; and indeed I don’t think he 
had been so loquacious upon any other 
morning or topic since his arrival at Mar- 
lowe. 

“ They are beautiful,” continued Lady 
Blunket, “ and so resigned. I was most 
anxious, my dear, to place a tablet under the 
monument, you know, at Maisly ; a mural 
tablet, just like the Tuftons’, you know; 
they are very reasonable, inscribed with 
dear mamma’s verses ; but I can’t' persuade 
Sir Paul, he’s so poor, you know ; but cer- 
tainly, some day or other. I’ll do it myself.” 

The irony about Sir Paul’s poverty, though 
accompanied by a glance from her ladyship’s 
pink eyes, was lost on that excellent man, 
who was by this time eating some hot broil. 

Their judicious conversation was not with- 
out an effect commensurate with the rarity 
of the exertion, for between them they had 
succeeded in frightening poor Beatrix a good 
deal. 

In other quarters the conversation was 
proceeding charmingly. Linnett was de- 
scribing to Miss Blunket the exploits of a 
terrier of his, among a hundred rats let 
loose together — a narrative to which she 
listened with a pretty girlish alternation of 
terror and interest; while the Rev. Dives 
Marlowe and old Doocey conversed earnestly 
on the virtues of colchicuni, and exchanged 
confidences touching their gouty symptoms 
and affections ; and Drayton, assisted by an 
occasional parenthesis Ifom that prodigious 
basso, Varbarriere, was haranguing Beatrix 
and Mrs. Maberly on pictures, music, and the . 
way to give agreeable dinners; and now 
Beatrix asked old Lady Blunket in what way 
she would best like to dispose of the day. 
What to do, where to drive, an inquiry into 
which the other ladies were drawn, and the 
debate, assisted by the gentlemen, grew 
general, and animated. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

GENERAL LENNOX APPEARS. 

In the midst of this animation the butler 
whispered in the ear of the Rev. Di^es Mar- 
lowe, who, with a grave face, but hardly per- 
ceived, slid away, and met the Doctor in the 
hall. 

“ Aw — see — this is a — rather nasty case, I 
am bound to tell you, Mr. Marlowe ; he’s in^ 
a rather critical state. He’ll see you, I dare* 
say, by-and-by, and I hope he’ll get on satis- 
factorily. I hope he’ll do; but I must tell 
you, it’s a — it’s a — serious case, sir.” 

“ Nothing since ?” asked Dives, a good 
deal shocked. 

“ Nothing since, sir,” answered the Doctor, 
with a nod, and his eyebrows raised as he 
stood ruminating a little with his fists in 
his pockets. “ But — but — ^you’ll do this, sir, 
if you please — you’ll call in some physician, 
in whom you have confidence, for I’ll tell 
you frankly, it’s not a case in which I’d like 
to be alone.” 


GUY DEVERELL. 


‘ It’s yery sudden, sir ; whom do you 
advise ?” said Dives, looking black and pal- 
lid. 

“ Well, you know, it ought to be soon. 
I’d like him at once — you can’t send very 
far. There's Ponder, I would not desire 
better, if you approve. Send a fellow riding, 
and don’t spare horseflesh, mind, to Slowton. 
He’ll find Ponder there if he’s quick, and 
let him bring him in a chase and four, and 
pay the fellows well, and they’ll not be long 
coming. They’d better be quick, for there’s 
something must be done, and I can’t under- 
take it alone.” 

Together they walked out to the stable- 
yard, Dives feeling stunned and odd. The 
Doctor was reserved, and only waited to see 
things in train. Almost while Dives pen- 
cilled his urgent note on the back of a letter, 
the groom had saddled one of the hunters 
and got into his jacket, and was mounted 
and away. 

Dives returned to the house. From the 
steps he looked with a sinking heart after 
the man cantering swiftly down the avenue, 
and saw him in the distance like a dwindling 
figure in a dream, and somehow it was to 
him an efibrt to remember what it was all 
about. He felt the cold air stirring his dark 
locks, streaked with silver, and found he had 
forgot his hat, and so came in. 

“ You have seen a great deal of art. Mon- 
sieur Varbarriere,” said Drayton, accosting 
that gentleman admiringly, in the outer hall, 
where they were fitting themselves with 
their “ wide-awakes” and “ jerries.” “ It is 
so pleasant to meet anyone who really un- 
derstands it and has a feeling for it. You 
seem to me to lean more to painting than to 
statuary.” 

“ Painting is the more popular art, because 
the more literal. The principles of statuary 
are abstruse. The one, you see, is a repeti- 
tion — the other a translation. Color is 
more than outline, and the painter commands 
it. The man with the chisel has only out- 
line, and must render nature into white-stone, 
with the natural condition of being in- 
spected from every point, and the unnatu- 
ral one, in solid anatomy, of immobility. It 
is a greater triumph, but a less effect.” 

Varbarriere was lecturing this morning 
according to his lights, more copiously and 
ex cathedra than usual. Perhaps his de- 
clamations and antithesis represented the 
constraint which he placed on himself, like 
those mental exercises which sleepless men 
prescribe to wrest their minds from anxious 
and exciting preoccupations. 

“ Do you paint, sir ?” asked Drayton, who 
was really interested. 

“ Bah 1 never. I can make just a little 
scratching with my pencil, enough to remind. 
But paint — oh — ha, ha, ha I — no. ’Tis an art 
I can admire ; but should no more think to 
practise than the dance.” 

And the ponderous M. Varbarriere pointed 
his toe and made a mimic pirouette, snapped 
his fingers, and shrugged his round shoulders. 

“Alas! sir, the more I appreciate the 
dance, the more I despair of figuring in the 


125 

ballet, and so with painting. Perhaps, 
though, you paint ?” 

“ Well, I just draw a little— what you call 
scratching, and I have tried a little tinting ; 
but I’m sure it’s very bad. I don’t care 
about fools, of course, but I should be afraid 
to show it to anyone who knew anything 
about it — to you, for instance,” said Drayton, 
who, though conceited, had sense enough at 
times to be a little modest. 

“ What is it ?” said Miss Blunket, skipping 
into the hall, with a pretty little basket on 
her arm, and such a coquettish little hat on, 
looking so naive and girlish, and so remark- 
ably tattooed with wrinkles. “ Shall I run 
away — is it a secret ?” 

“ Oh, no ; we have no secrets,” said Dray- 
ton. 

“ Ho secrets,” echoed Varbarriere. 

“ And won’t you tell ? I’m such a curious, 
foolish, wretched creature and she dropped 
her eyes like a flower-girl in a play. 

What lessons if we could only take them, 
are read us every hour 1 What a giant 
among liars is vanity ! Here was this with- 
ered witch, with her baptismal registry and 
her looking-glass, dressing herself like a 
strawberry girl, and fancying herself charm- 
ing 1 

“ Only about my drawings — nothing.” 

“ Ah, I know. Did Mr. Drayton show 
them to you ?” 

“ Ho, Mademoiselle ; I’ve not been so for- 
tunate.” 

“ He showed them to me, though. It’s not 
any harm to tell, is it ? and they really are — 
Well, I won’t say all I think of them.” 

“ I was just telling Monsieur Varbarriere. 
It is not everyone I’d show those drawings 
to. Was not I, Monsieur?” said Drayton, 
with a fine irony. 

“ So he was, upon my honor,” said Var- 
barriere, gravely. 

“ He did not mean it, though,” simpered 
Miss Blunket, “ if you can’t — I’ll try to induce 

him to show them to you ; they are Oh ! 

here is Beatrix.” 

“ How is your papa now. Mademoiselle ?” 
asked Varbarriere, anxious to escape. 

“ Just as he was, I think, a little low, the 
Doctor says.” 

“ Ah 1” said Varbarriere, and still his dark 
eyes looked on hers with grave inquiry. 

“ He always is low for a day or two ; but 
he says this will be nothing. He almost 
hopes to be down this evening.” 

“ Ah ! Yes. That’s very well,” commented 
Varbarriere, with pauses between, and his 
steady, clouded gaze unchanged. 

“We are going to the garden ; are you 
ready, darling ?” said she to Miss Blunket. 

“ Oh, quite,” and she skipped to the door, 
smiling, this way and that, as she stood in 
the sun on the step. “ Sweet day,” and she 
looked back on Beatrix and the invitation, 
glanced slightly on Drayton, who looked 
loweringly after them unmoved, and 
thought — 

“ Why the plague does she spoil her walks 
with that frightful old humbug ? There’s no 
escaping that creature.” 


126 


GUY DEVERELL. 


We have only conjecture as to which of 
the young ladies, now running down the 
steps, Mr. Drayton’s pronouns referred to. 

“You fish to-day?” asked Varbarriere, 
on whose hands time dragged strangely. 

“We were thinking of going down to that 
pretty place Gryston. Linnett was there 
on Saturday morning. It was Linnett’ s 
trout you thought so good at luncheon.” 

And with such agreeable conversation 
they loitered a little at the door, and sud- 
denly, with quick steps, there approached, 
and passed them by, an apparition. 

It was old General Lennox. He had 
been walking in the park — about the 
grounds — he knew not where, since day- 
break. Awfully stern he looked, fatigued, 
draggled he well might be, gloveless, one 
hand in his pocket, the other clenched on 
his thumb like a child’s in a convulsion. 
His thoughts were set on something remote, 
for he brushed by the gentlemen, and not 
till he had passed did he seem to hear Dray- 
ton’s cheery salutation, and stopping and 
turning toward them suddenly, he said, very 
grimly — 

“ Beg your pardon ” 

“ Nothing, General, only wishing you 
good-morning,” answered Drayton. 

“ Yes, charming morning. I’ve beeen 
walking. I’ve been out— a — thank you,” 
and that lead-colored and white* General 
vanished like a wicked ghost. 

“ ’Gad, he looks as if he’d got a licking. 
Did you ever see a fellow look so queer ?” 

“ He’s been overworking his mind — busi- 
ness’ you know — wants rest, I suspect,” said 
Varbarriere, with a solemn nod. 

“ They say fellows make themselves mad 
that way. I wonder has he had any break- 
fast ; did you see his trowsers all over mud ?” 

“ I half envy your walk to Gryston,” said 
Varbarriere, glancing up toward the fleecy 
clouds and blue sky, and down again to the 
breezy landscape. “ It’s worth looking at, 
a very pretty bit, that steep bridge and glen.” 

“ No notion of coming ; maybe you will ?” 

Varbarriere smiled and shook his head. 

“ No angler, sir, never was,” he said. 

“ A bad day, rather, at all events,” said 
Drayton ; “ a grey day is the thing for us.” 

Ah, yes, a grey day ; so my nephew tells 
me ; a pretty good angler, I believe.” 

Varbarriere did not hear Drayton’s answer, 
whatever it was ; he was thinking of quite 
other things, and more and more feeverishly 
every minute. The situation was for him all 
in darkness. But there remained on his 
mind the impression that something worse 
even than a guilty discovery had occurred 
last night, and the spectre that had just 
crossed them in the hall was not a sight to 
dissipate those awful shadows. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

LADY ALICE KEDCLIFFE MAKES GENERAL 

Lennox’s acquaintance. 

Old General Lennox stopped a servant 


on the stairs, and learned from the staring 
domestic where Lady Alice Redcliffe then 
was. 

That sad and somewhat virulent old 
martjrwas at that moment in her accus- 
tomed haunt. Lady Mary’s boudoir, and in 
her wonted attitude over the fire, pondering 
in drowsy discontent over her many mis- 
eries, when a sharp knock at the door 
startled her nerves and awakened her 
temper. 

Her “ come in ” sounded sharply, and she 
beheld for the first time in her life the Gen- 
eral, a tall lean old man, with white bristles 
on his brow and cheek, with his toilet dis- 
ordered by long and rather rapid exercise, 
and grim and livid with no transient 
agitation. 

“ Lady Alice Redclifie ? ” inquired he, 
with a stiff bow, remaining still inclined, his 
eyes still fixed on her. 

“i am Lady Alice Redcliffe,” returned 
that lady, haughtily, having quite forgotten 
General Lennox and all about him. 

“ My name is Lennox,” he said. 

“Oh, General Lennox? I was told you 
were here last night,” said the old lady, 
scrutinising him with a sort of surprised 
frown ; his dress and appearance were a little 
wild, and not in accordance with her ideas 
on military precision. “I am happy. Gen- 
eral Lennox, to make your acquaintance. 
You’ve just arrived, I dare say?” 

“ I arrived yesterday— last night— last night 
late. I— I’m— much obliged. May I say a 
word?” 

“Certainly, General Lennox,” acquiesced 
the old lady, looking harder at him — “ cer- 
tainly, but I must remind you that I have 
been a sad invalid, and therefore very little 
qualified to discuss or advise and she lean- 
ed back with a fatigued air, but a curious 
look nevertheless. 

“I— I— it’s about my, wife, ma’am. We 
can — we can’t live any longer together.” He 
was twirling his gold eyeglass with trembling 
fingers as he spoke. 

“ You have been quarelling — h’m ?” said 
Lady Alice, still starmg hard at him, and 
rising with more agility than one might have 
expected ; and shutting the door, which the 
old General had left open, she said, “ vSit 
down, sir — quarrelling, eh ?” 

“ A quarrel, madam, that can never be 

made up — by , never The General 

smote his gouty hand furiously on the chim- 
neypiece as he thus spake. 

“ Don’t, General Lennox, donH^ pray. If 
you can’t command yourself, how can you 
hope to bear with one another’s infirmities ? 
A quarrel ? H’m.” 

“ Madam, we’ve separated. It’s worse, 
ma’am— all over. I thought, Lady — Lad}^ 
— I thought, madam, I might ask you, as the 
only early friend — a friend, ma’am, and a 
kinswoman — to take her with you for a, 
little while, till some home is settled for her ; 
here she can’t stay, of course, an hour. That 
villain ! May damn him. ” 

“ Who ?” asked Lady Alice, with a kind 
of scowl, quite forgetting to rebuke him this 


GUY DEYERELL. 


127 


time, her face darkening and turning very- 
pale, for she saw it was another great family 
disgrace. 

‘"Sir Jekyl Marlowe, ma’am, of Marlowe, 
Baronet, Member of Parliament, Deputy 
Lieutenant,” bawled the old General, with 
shrill and trembling voice. “ I’ll drag him 
through the law courts, and the divorce court, 
and the House of Lords.” He held his right 
fist up with its trembling knuckles working, 
as if he had them in Sir Jekyl’s cravat, “ drag 
him through them all, ma’am, till the dogs 
would not pick his bones ; and I’ll shoot him 

through the head, by , I’ll shoot him 

through the head, and his family ashamed to 
put his name on his tombstone.” 

Lady Alice stood up, with a face so dismal 
it almost looked wficked. 

“ I see, sir ; I see there’s something very 
bad ; I’m sorry, sir ; I’m very sorry ; I’m mry 
sorry.” 

She had a hand of the old General’s in 
each of hers, and was shaking them with a 
tremulous clasp. 

Such as it was, it was the first touch of 
sympathy he had felt. The old General’s 
grim face quivered and trembled, and he 
grasped lier hands too, and then there came 
those convulsive croupy sobs, so dreadful to 
hear, and at last tears, and this dried and 
bleached old soldier wept loud and piteously. 
Outside the door you would not have known 
what to make of these cracked, convulsive 
sounds. You would have stopped in horror, 
and fancied some one dying. After a while 
he said. — 

“ Oh ! ma’am, I was very fond of her — I 
fms, desperately. If I could know it was all 
a dream. I’d be content to die. I wish, 
cna’am, you’d advise me. I’ll go back to 
India, I think; I could not stay here. 
You’ll know best, madam, what she ought to 
do. I wish everything the best for her — 
you’ll see, ma’am — you’ll know best.” 

“ Quite— quite ; yes, these things are best 
settled by men of business. There are 
papers, I believe, drawn up, arranged by 
lawyers, and things, and I’m sorry, sir” 

And old Lady Alice suddenly began to sob. 

“ I’ll — I’ll do what I can tor the poor 
thing,” she said. “ I’ll take her to Wardlock 
— it’s quite solitary— no prying people — and 
then to— perhaps it’s better to go abroad; 
and you’ll not make it public sooner than it 
must be ; and it’s a great blow to me, sir, a 
terrible blow. I wish she had placed herself 
more under direction ; but it’s vain looking 
back— she always refused advice, poor, poor 
wretched thing ! Poor Jennie ! We must be 
resigned, sir ; and— and, sir, for God’s sake, 
no fighting — no pistoling. That sort of thing 
is never heard of now ; and if you do, the 
whole world will be ringing with it, and the 
unfortunate creature the gaze of the public be- 
fore she need be, and perhaps some great crime 
added — some one killed. Do you promise ?” 

“ Ma’am, it’s hard to promise.” 

“ But you must, General Lennox, or I’ll 
take measures to stop it this moment,” cried 
Lady Alice, drying her eyes and glaring at 
liitn fiercely. 


“ Stop it ! wTioHl stop it halloed the 
General with a stamp. 

“ YouHl stop it, General,” exclained the 
old lady ; “ your own common sense ; your 
own compasion, your own self-respect ; and 
not the less that a poor old woman that sj^m- 
pathises with you implores it.” 

There was here an interval. 

“ Ma’am, ma’am, it’s not easy ; but I will 
— I will, ma’am. I’ll go this moment ; I will, 
ma’am ; I can’t trust myself here. If I met 
him, ma’am, by Heaven I couldnH^'^ 

“ Well, thank you, thank you. General 
Lennox — do go ; there’s not much chance of 
meeting, for he’s ill ; but go, don’t stay a mo- 
ment, and write to me to Wardlock, and you 
shall hear everything. There — go. Good- 
bye.’ 

So the General was gone, and Lady Alice 
stood for a while bewildered, looking at the 
door through which he had vanished. 

It is well when these sudden collapses of 
the overwrought nerves occur. More de- 
jected, more broken, perhaps, he looked, but 
much more like the General Lennox whom 
his friends remembered. Something of the 
panic and fury of his calamity had subsided, 
too; and though the grief must, perhaps, 
always remain pretty much unchanged, yet 
he could now estimate the situation more 
justly, and take his measures more like a 
sane man. 

In this better, if not happier mood, Yar- 
barriere encountered him in that over- 
shadowed back avenue which leads more 
derectly than the main one to the little 
town of Marlowe. 

Yarbarriere was approaching the house, 
and judged, by the General’s slower gait, 
that he was now more himself. 

The large gentleman in the Germanesque 
felt hat, raised that grotesque head-gear, 
French fashion, as Lennox drew nigh. 

The General, with two fingers, made him 
a stern, military salute in reply, and came 
suddenly to a standstill. 

“ May I walk a little with you. General 
Lennox ?” inquired Yarbarriere. 

“ Certainly, sir. Walk f By all means ; 
I’m going to London,” rejoined the General, 
without, however, moving from the spot 
where he had halted. 

“ Rather a long stretch for me,” thought 
Yarbarriere, with one of those inward thrills 
of laughter which sometimes surprise us in 
the gravest moods and the most unsuitable 
places. He looked sober enough, however, 
and merely said — 

“ You, know. General, there’s some one ill 
up there,” and he nodded mysteriously to- 
ward the house. 

“ Is there ? Ay. Well, yes, I dare say,” 
and he laughed with a sudden quaver. “ I 
was not sure; the old woman said some- 
thing. I’m glad, sir.” 

“ I— I think I know what it is, sir,” said 
Yarbarriere. 

“ So do I, sir,” said the General, with an- 
other short laugh. 

“ You recollect. General Lennox, what 
you promised me ?” 


128 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Ay, sir ; how can I help it ?” answered 
he. 

“ How can you help it ! I don’t quite see 
your meaning,” replied Varbarriere, slowly. 
“ I can only observe that it gives me new 
ideas of a soldier’s estimate of his promise.” 

“ Don’t blame me, sir, if I lost' my head a 
little, when I saw that villain there, in my 

room, sir, by ” and the General cursed 

him here parenthetically through his clenched 
teeth ; “ I felt, sir, as — as if the sight of him 
struck me in the face — mad, sir, for a minute 
I suppose, sir; and — it occurred. I 

say, sir I can’t help it — and I couldn’t help 
it, by I couldn’t.” 

Varbarriere looked down with a peevish 
sneer on the grass and innocent daisies at his 
feet, his heel firmly placed, and tapping the 
sole of his boot from that pivot on the sward, 
like a man beating time to a slow movement 
in an overture. 

“ Very good, sir ! It’s your own afiair. I 
suppose you’ve considered consequences, if 
anything should go wrong.” 

And without awaiting an answer, he turned 
and slowly pursued his route toward the 
house. I don’t suppose, in his then frame of 
mind, the General saw consequences very 
clearly, or cared about them, or was capable, 
when the image of Sir Jekyl presented itself, 
of any emotions but those of hatred and 
rage. He had gone now, at all events ; the 
future darkness ; the past irrevocable. 

r* 


CHAPTER LXV. 

THE BISHOP SEES THE PATIENT. 

In the hall Varbarriere met the Reverend 
Dives Marlowe. 

“ Well, sir, how is Sir Jekyl ?” asked he. 

The parson looked bilious and lowering. 

“ To say truth. Monsieur, I can’t very well 
make out what the Doctor thinks. I suspect 
he does not understand very well himself 
Qout^ he says, but in a very sinking state ; 
and we’ve sent for the physician at Slowton ; 
and altogether, sir, I am very uneasy.’’ 

I^suppose if the blow had fallen, the rev- 
erend gentleman would in a little 'while 
have become quite resigned, as became him. 
There were the baronetcy and some land ; 
but on the whole, when Death drew near 
smirking, and offered on his tray, with a 
handsome black pall over it, these sparkling 
relics of the late Sir Jekyl Marlowe, Bart., 
the Rev. Dives turned away ; and though he 
liked these things well enough, put them 
aside honestly, and even with a sort of 
disgust. For Jekyl, as I have said, though 
the brothers could sometimes exchange a 
sharp sally, had always been essentially kind 
to him ; and Dives was not married, and in 
fact, was funding money, and in no hurry ; 
those things were sure to come to him if he 
lived, sooner or later. 

“ And what, may I ask, do you suppose it 
Uf inquired Varbarriere. 

“ Well, gout, you know — he’s positive ; and, 
poor fellow, he’s got it in his foot, and a very 


nasty thing it is, I know, even (here. We all 
of us have it hereditarily — our family.” The 
apostle and martyr did not want him to sup- 
pose he had earned it. “ But I am very 
anxious, sir. Do you know anything of gout ? 
May it be (here and somewhere else at the 
same time ? Two members of our family 
died of it in the stomach, and one in the 
head. It has been awfully fatal with us.” 

Varbarriere shook his head. He had never 
had a declared attack, and had no light to 
throw on the sombre prospect. The fact is, 
if that solemn gentleman had known for 
certain exactly how matters stood, and had 
not been expecting the arrival of his contu- 
macious nephew, he would have been many 
miles on his way to London by this time. 

“ You know— you know, miking seems 
very odd as a symptom of common gout in 
the great toe,” said Dives, looking in his 
companion’s face, and speaking rather like 
a man seeking than communicating informa- 
tion. “ We must not frighten the ladies, you 
know ; but I’m very much afraid of some- 
thing in the stomach, eh ? and possibly the 
heart.” 

“ After all, sir,” said Varbarriere, with a 
brisk effort, “ Doctor— a— what’s his name ? 
—he’s but a rural practitioner — an apothecary 
— is not it so ?” 

“ The people here say, however, he’s a 
very clever fellow, though,” said Dives, not 
much comforted. 

“ We may hear a different story when the 
Slowton doctor comes. I venture to think 
we shall. I always fancied when gout was 
well out in the toe, the internal organs were 
safe. Oh ! there’s the Bishop.” 

“ Just talking about poor Jekyl, my lord,” 
said Dives, with a sad smile of deference, the 
best he could command. 

“And — and how is my poor friend and 
pupil. Sir Jekyl ?— better, I trust,” responded 
the apostle in gaiters and apron. 

“ Well, my lord, we hope — I trust every- 
thing satisfactory ; but the Doctor has been 
playing the sphinx with us, and I don’t 
know exactly what to make of him.” 

“ I saw Doctor Pratt for a moment, and 
expressed my wish to see his patient — my 
poor pupil — before I go, which must be — yes 
— within an hour,” said the Bishop, consult- 
ing his punctual gold watch. “ But he pre- 
ferred my postponing until Doctor — I forget 
his name — very much concerned, indeed, that 
a second should be thought necessaiy— from 
Slowton should have arrived. It — it gives 
me — I — I can’t deny, a rather serious idea of 
it. Has he had many attacks ?” 

“ Yes, my lord, several ; never threatened 
seriously, but once— at Dartbroke, about two 
years ago — in the stomach.” 

“Ah ! I forgot it was the stomach. I re- 
member his illness though,” said the Bishop, 

graciously. , , 

“ Not actually the stomach— only threat- 
ened,” suggested Dives, deferentially. “ I 
have made acquaintance with it myself, too, 
slightly ; never so sharply as poor ‘lekyl. I 
wish that other doctor would come I But 
even at best it’s not a pleasant visitor. 


GTjy DEVERELL. 


“I dare say— I can well suppose it. I 
have reason to be very thankful. I’ve never 
suffered. My poor father knew what it was 
—suffered horribly. I remember him at 
Buxton for it — horribly.” 

The Bishop was fond of this recollection, 
people said, and liked it to be understood 
that there w^as gout in the family, though 
he could not show that aristocratic gules 
himself. 

At this moment Tomlinson approached, 
respectfully — I might even say religiously — 
and with such a reverence as High-Church- 
men make at the creed, accosted the prelate, 
in low tones like distant organ-notes, mur- 
muring Sir Jekyl’s compliments to his “ lord- 
ship, and would be very ’appy to see his 
lordship whenever it might 'be his conve- 
nience.” To which his lordship assented, 
with a grave “ Now^ certainly, I shall be most 
happy,’’ and turning to Dives — 

“This, I hope, looks well. I fancy he 
must feel better. Let us hope ;” and with 
slightly uplifted hand and eyes, the good 
Bishop followed Tomlinson, feeling so- oddly 
as he threaded the same narrow half-lighted 
passages, whose corners and panelling came 
sharply on his memory as he passed them, 
and ascended the steep back stair with the 
narrow stained glass-slits, by which he had 
reached, thirty years ago, the sick-chamber 
of the dying Sir Harry Marlowe. 

The Bishop sighed, looking round him, as 
he stood on the lobby outside the little ante- 
room. The light fell through the slim 
colored orifice opposite on the oak before 
him, just as it did on the day he last stood 
there. The banisters, above and below, 
looked on him like yesterday’s acquaint- 
ances; and the thoughtful frown of the 
heavy oak beams overhead seemed still knit 
over the same sad problem^ 

“ Thirty years ago !” murmured the Bishop, 
with a sad smile, nodding his silvery head 
slightly, as his saddened eyes wandered over 
these things. “ What is man that thou art 
mindful of him, or the son of man that thou 
so regardest him ?” 

Tomlinson, who had knocked at the Baro- 
net’s door, returned to say he begged his 
lordship would step in. 

So with another sigh, peeping before him, 
he passed through the small room that inter- 
posed, and entered Sir Jekyl’s, and took his 
hand very kindly and gravely, pressing it, 
and saying in the low tone] which becomes 
a sick-chamber — 

“ I trust, my dear Sir Jekyl, you feel bet- 
ter.” 

“ Thank you, pretty well very good of 
3^ou, my lord, to come. It’s a long way, from 
the front of the house — a journey. He told 
me you were in the hall.” 

“ Yes, it is a large house ; interesting to 
me, too, from earlier recollections.” 

“ You were in this room, a great many 
years ago, with my poor father. He died 
here, you know.” 

“ I’m afraid you’re distressing yourself 
speaking. Yes ; oddly enough, I recognised 
the passages and back stairs ; the windows 

9 


129 

too, are peculiar. The furniture^ though, 
that’s changed — is not it ?” 

“ So it is. I hated it,” replied Sir Jekyl. 
“ Balloon-backed, blue silk things — faded, 
you know. It’s curious you should remem- 
ber, after such a devil of a time — such a great 
number of years, my lord. I hated it. When 
I had that fever here in this room — thirteen 
— fourteen years ago — ay, by Jove, it’s fifteen 
— they were going to write for youT 

“ Excuse me, my dear friend, but it seems 
to me you are exerting yourself too much,” 
interposed the prelate again. . , 

“ Oh dear no ! it does me good to talk. 
I had all sorts of queer visions, r' .ople 
fancy, you know, they see things ; and I used 
to think I saw him — my poor tatlier, I mean 
— every night. There were six of those 
confounded blue-backed chairs in this room, 
and a nasty idea got into my head. I had 
a servant — poor Lewis — then a very trust- 
worthy fellow, and liked me, I think ; and 
Lewis told me the Doctors said there was to 
be a crisis on the night week of the first con- 
sultation — seven days, you know.” 

“ I really fear. Sir Jekyl, you are distress- 
ing yourself,” persisted the Bishop, who did 
not like the voluble eagerness and the appar- 
ent fatigue, nevertheless, with which he 
spoke. 

“ Oh ! it’s only a word more — it doesn’t, I 
assure you — and I perceived he sat on a dif- 
ferent chair, d’ye see, every night, and on 
the fourth night he had got on the fourth 
chair ; and I liked his face less and less every 
night. You know he hated me about Molly 
— about nothing — he alw^ays hated me ; and 
as there were only six chairs, it got into my 
head that he’d get up on my bed on the 
seventh, and that I should die in the crisis. 
So I put all the chairs out of the room. 
They thought I was raving ; but I was quite 
right, for he did not come again, and here I 
am and with these words there came the 
rudiments of his accustomed chuckle, which 
died out in a second or two, seeming to give 
him pain. 

“ Now, you’ll promise me not to talk so 
much at a time till you’re better. I am glad, 
sir— very glad. Sir Jekyl, to have enjoyed 
your hospitality, and to have even this op- 
portunity of thanking you for it. It is very 
delightful to me occasionally to find myself 
thus beholden to my old pupils. I have had 
the pleasure of spending a days with the 
Marquis at Queen’s Dykely ; in fact, I came 
direct from him to you. You recollect him 
— Lord Elstowe he was then? You remem- 
ber Elstowe at school ?” 

“ To be sure ; remember him very well. 
We did not agree, though— always thought 
him a cur,” acquiesced Sir Jekyl. 

The Bishop cleared his voice. 

“He was asking for you, I assure you, 
very kindly— very kindly indeed, and seems 
to remember his school-days very affection- 
ately, and— and pleasant!}^, and quite sur- 
prised me with his minute recollections of all 
the boys.” 

“ They all hated him,” murmured Sir Jekyl. 
“ I did, I know.” 


130 


GUY DEVERELL. 


And — and I think we shall have a fine 
day. I drive always with two windows open 
— a window in front and one at the side,” 
said the Bishop, whose mild and dignified 
e 3 ^es glanced at the windows, and the pleas- 
ant evidences of sunshine outside, as he 
spoke. “ I was almost afraid I should have 
to start without the pleasure of saying good- 
bye. You remember the graceful farewell 
in Lucretius ? I venture to say your brother 
does. I made your class recite it, do you re- 
member ?” 

And the Bishop repeated three or four 
hexameters with a look of expectation at his 
old pupil, as if looking to him to take up the 
recitation. 

“ Yes, I am sure of it. I think I remem- 
ber ; but, egad ! I’ve quite forgot my Latin, 
any I knew,” answered the Baronet, who 
was totally unable to meet the invitation ; “ I 
— I don’t know how it is, but I’m sorry you 
have to go to-day, very sorry sorry, of 
course, any time, but particularly I feel as if 
I should get well again very soon — that is, 
if you were to stay. Do you think you 
can ?” 

“ Thank you, my dear Marlowe, thank you 
very much for that feeling,” said the good 
Bishop, much gratified, and placing his old 
hand very kindly in that of the patient, just 
as Sir Jekyl suddenly remembered his doing 
once at his bedside in the sick-house in 
younger days, long ago, when he was a 
school-boy, and the Bishop master; and 
both paused for a moment in one of those 
dreams of the past that make us smile so 
sadly. 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

m THE YAKD OF THE MAHLOWE ARMS. 

The Bishop looked at his watch, and 
smiled, shaking his head. 

“ Time fiies. I must, I fear, take my leave.” 

“ Before you go,” said Sir Jekyl, “ I must 
tell you I’ve been thinking over my promise 
about that odious green chamber, and I’ll 
pledge you my honor I’ll fulfil it. I’ll not 
leave a stone of it standing ; I won’t, I assure 
you. To the letter I’ll fulfil it.” 

‘‘I never doubted it, my dear Sir Jekyl.”-^ 

“ And must you really leave me to-day ?” 

“No choice, I regret.” 

“ It’s very unlucky. You can’t think how 
your going affects me. It seems so odd and 
unlucky, so depressing just now. I’d have 
liked to talk to you, though I’m in no danger, 
and know it. I’d like to hear what’s to be 
said, clergymen are generally so pompous 
and weak ; and to be sure,” he said, suddenly 
recollecting his brother, “ there’s Dives, who 
is neither — who is a good clergyman, and 
learned. I say so, of course, my lord, with 
submission to you ; but still it isn’t quite the 
same— you know the early association ; and 
it makes me uncomfortable and out of spirits 
your going away. You don’t think you 
could possibly postpone ?” 

“ No, my dear friend, quite impossible ; 


but I leave you —tell him I said so~in excel- 
lent hands ; and I’m glad to add, that so far 
as I can learn you’re by no means in a dying 
state.” 

The Bishop smiled. 

“ Oh ! I know that,” said Sir Jekyl, return- 
ing that cheerful expansion ; “ I know that 
very well, my Lord : a fellow always knows 
pretty well when he’s in anything of a fix — I 
mean his life at all in question ; it is net the 
least that, but a sort of feeling or fancy. 
What does Doctor Pratt say it is 

“ Oh ! gout, -as I understand.” 

“ Ah ! yes, I have had a good deal in my 
day. Do you think I could tempt you to 
return, maybe, when your business — this 
particular business, I mean — is over ? 

The Bishop smiled and shook his head. 

“ I find business — mine at least — a very 
tropical plant ; as fast as I head it down, it 
throws up a new growth. I was not half 
so hard worked, I do assure you, when I was 
better able to work, at the school, long ago. 
You havn’t a notion what it is.” 

“ Well, but you’ll come back some time, 
not very far away ?” 

“ Who knows ?” smiled the Bishop. “ It 
is always a temptation. I can say that 
truly. In the meantime, I shall expect to 
hear that you are much better. Young 
Marlowe — I mean Dives,” and the Bishop 
laughed gently at the tenacity of his old 
school habits, “ will let me hear ; and so for 
the present, my dear Sir Jekyl, with many 
many thanks for a very pleasant sojourn, 
and with all good wishes, I bid you farewell, 
and ma}^ God bless you.” 

So having shaken his hand, and kissing 
his own as he smiled another farewell at 
the door, the dignified and good prelate dis- 
appeared mildly from the room, Jek^d fol- 
lowing him with his eyes, and sighing as the 
door closed on him. 

As Sir Jekyl leaned back against his pil- 
lows, there arrived a little note, in a tall 
hand ; some of the slim I’s, b’s, and so on, 
were a litle spiral with the tremor of age. 

“ Lady Halice Redcliffe, Sir Jekyl, please 
sir, sends her compliments and hopes you 
may be able to read it, and will not leave for 
Wardlock earlier than half-past one o’clock.” 

“ Very well. Get away and wait in the 
outer room,” said Sir Jekyl, flushing a little, 
and looking somehow annoyed. 

“ I hate the sight of her hand. It’s sealed, 
too. I wish that cursed old woman was 
where she ought to be ; and she chooses now 
because she knows I’m ill, and can’t bear 
worry.” 

Sir Jekyl twirled the little note round in 
his fingers and thumb with a pinch. The 
feverish pain he was suffering did not im- 
prove his temper, and he was intemperately 
disposed to write across the back of the un- 
opened note something to this effect : — “ 111 
and suffering ; the pleasure of your note 
might be too much for me ; pray keep it till 
to-morrow.” 

But curiosity and something of a dread 
that discovery had occurred prompted him 
to open it and he read — 


GUY DEVERELL. 


131 


“ Having had a most painful interview 
with unhappy General Lennox, and endured 
mental agitation and excitement which are 
too much for my miserable health and nerves, 
I mean to return to Wardlock as early to-day 
as my strength will permit, taking with me, 
at his earnest request, your mctim. 

“ D n her !” interposed Sir J ekyl 

through his set teeth. 

“ I think you will see,’^ he read on, “ that 
this house is no longer a befitting residence 
for your poor innocent girl. As I am charged 
for a time with the care of the ruined wife of 
your friend and guest, you will equally see 
that it is quite impossible to offer my darling 
Beatrix an asylum at Wardlock. The Fen- 
tons, however^ will, I am sure, be happy to 
receive her. She must leave Marlowe, of 
course, before I do. While here, she is under 
my care ; but this house is no home for her ; 
and you can hardly wish that she should be 
sacrificed in the ruin of the poor wife whom 
you have made an outcast.^’’ 

“ Egad ! it’s the devil sent that fiend to tor- 
ture me so. It’s all about, I suppose,” ex- 
claimed Sir Jekyl, with a gasp. “ Unlucky ! 
The stupid old fribble, to think of his going 
off with his story to that Pharisaical old 
tattler !” 

The remainder of the letter was brief. 

“ I do not say, Jekyl Marlowe, that I re- 
gret your illness. You have to thank a mer- 
ciful Providence that it is unattended with 
danger ; and it affords an opportunity for re- 
flection, which may,* if properly improved, 
lead to some awakening of conscience — to a 
proper estimate of your past life and an 
amendment of the space that remains. I need 
hardly add, that an amended life involves re- 
paration, so far as practicable, to all whom 
you, or, in your interest, yours may have 
injured. 

“ In deep humiliation and sorrow, 

“ Alice Redcmffe.” ^ 


“ I wish you were in a deep pond, you 
plaguy old witch. That fellow, Herbert 
Strangways — Yarbarriere — he’s been talking 
to her. I know what she means by all that 
cant.” 

Then he read over again the passages 
about “your, victim,” and“ General Lennox,” 
your “ niend and guest.” And he knocked 
on the table and called as well as he could 
— “ Tomlinson,” who entered. 

“ Where’s General Lennox ?” 

“ Can’t say. Sir Jekyl, please, sir — ’avn’t 
saw him to-day.” 

“Just see, please, if he’s in the house, and 
let him know that I’m ill, but very anxious 
to see him. You may say wry ill, do you 
mind, and only wish a word or two.” 

Tomlinson bowed and disappeared. 

“ Don’t care if he strikes me again. I’ve 
a word to say, and he must hear it,” thought 
Sir Jekyl. 

But Tomlinson returned with the intelli- 
gence that General Lennox had gone down 
to the town, and was going to Slowton sta- 


tion ; and his man, with some of his things, 
followed him to the Marlowe Arms, in the 
town close by. 

In a little while he called for paper, pen 
and ink, and with some trouble wrote an odd 
note to old General Lennox. 

“ General Lennox, 

You must hear me. By ,” and here 

followed an oath and an imprecation quite 
unnessary to transcribe. “ Your wife is 
innocent as an angel ! I have been the fiend 
who would, if he could have ruined her 
peace and yours. From your hand I have 
met my deserts. I lie now, I believe, on my 
death bed. I wish you knew the whole 
story. The truth would deify her and make 
you happy. I am past the age of romance, 
though not of vice. I speak now as a dying 
mae. I would not go out of the world with 

a perjury on my soul ; and, by , I swear 

your wife is as guiltless as an angel. I am ill 
able to speak, but will see and satisfy you. 
Bring a Bible and a pistol with you-^let me 
swear to every answer I make you ; and if I 
have not convinced you before you leave, I 
promise to shoot myself through the head, 
and save you from all further trouble on ac- 
count of “ Jekyl Marlowe.” 

“ Now see, Tomlinson, don’t lose a moment. 
Send a fellow runnmg, do you mind, and let 
him tell General Lennox I’m in pain — very 
ill — mind — and— and all that ; and get me an 
answer ; and he’ll put this in his hand.” 

Sir Jekyl was the sort of master who is 
obeyed. The town was hardly three quar- 
ters of a mile away. His messenger accom- 
plished the distance as if for a wager. 

The waiter flourished his napkin in the 
hall of the Marlowe Arms, and told him — 

“ No General, nothing was there, as he 
heerd.” 

“ Who do want said the fat proprietress 
with a red face and small eyes and a cap and 
satin bow, emerging from a side door, and su- 
perseding the waiter, who said — “A hoflicer, 
isn’t it V” as he went aside. 

“ Oh ! from the manor,” continued the pro- 
prietress in a conciliatory strain, recognising 
the Marlowe button, though she did not know 
the man. “ Can I do anything ?” 

And she instinctively dropped a courtesy, 
a deference to the far-off Baronet ; and then 
indemnifying herself by a loftier tone to the 
menial. 

“ A note for General Lennox, ma’am.” 

“ General Lennox ? I know, I think a mil- 
lentary man, white-’aired and spare.” 

“ I must give it ’im myself, ma’am, thankee,” 
said he declining the fat finger and thumb of 
the curious hostess, who tossed her false ring- 
lets with a little fat frown, and whiffled — 

“ Here, tell him where’s the tall, thin gem- 
m’n, with white mistashes, that’s ordered the 
bosses — that’ll be him, I daresay,” she said to 
the waiter, reinstated, and waddled away 
with a jingle of keys in her great pocket. So 
to the back yard they went, the thin, little 
elderly waiter skipping in front, with a jerk 
or two of his napkin. 

“ Thankee, that’s him,” said the messenger 


132 


GUY DEVERELL. 


CHAPTER LXYIL 

ABOUT LADY JANE. 

The General was walking up and down 
the pavement with a speed that seemed 
to have no object but to tire himself, his 
walking-stick very tightly grasped, his lips 
occasionally contracting, and his hat now 
and then making a vicious wag as he trav- 
ersed his beat. 

“ Hollo !” said the General, drawing up 
suddenly, as the man stood before him 
with the letter, accosting him with his hand 
to his cap. “ Hey ! well^ sir ?” 

“ Letter, please sir.” 

The General took it, stared at the man, I 
think without seeing him, for a while, and 
then resumed his march with his cane, 
sword-fashion, over his shoulder. The mes- 
senger waited a little perplexed. It was 
not until he had made a third turn that the 
General, again observing the letter in his 
hand, looked at it and again at the messen- 
ger, who was touching his cap, and stopping 
short, said, 

^‘Well — ay! This? — aw — ^you brought it, 
did’nt you?” 

So the General broke it open— he had not 
his glasses with him— and, holding it far 
away, read a few lines with a dreadful glare, 
and then bursting all on a sudden into such 
a storm of oaths and curses as scared the 
sober walls of that unmilitary hostelry, he 
whirled his walking-stick in the air with the 
fluttering letter extended toward the face of 
the astounded messenger, as if in another 
second he would sweep his head^off. 

At the sound of this hoarse screech the 
kitchen wench looked open-mouthed out of 
the scullery window, with a plate dripping 
in her hand. “ Boots,” with his fist in a 
“ Wellington,” held his blacking-brush poised 
in air, and gazed also ; and the hostler held 
the horse he was leading into the stable l)y 
the halter, and stood at the door gaping over 
his shoulder. 

“ Tell your master I said he may go to Jiell^ 
sir,” said the General, scrunching^ the ^ lettp 
like a snow-ball in his fist, and stamping in 
his fury. 

What more he said I know not. The man 
withdrew, and once or twice turned about, 
sulkily, half puzzled and half angered, per- 
haps not quite sure whether he ought not to 
“ lick ” him. 

“ What’ll be the matter now?” demanded 
the proprietress, looking from under her bal, 
ustrade of brown ringlets from the back door. 

“ Drat me if I know ; he’s a runl un, that 
he be,” replied the man with the Marlowe 
button. “ When master hears it, he lay his 
whip across that old cove’s shouthers. I’m 
thinking.” 

“ I doubt he’s not right in his head ; he’s 
bin a- walkin’ up an’ down the same way ever 
since he ordered the chaise, like a man be- 
side himself. Will ye put them horses to?” 
she continued, raising her voice ; “ why, the 
'amiss is on ’em this half-hour. Will ye put 
’em to or and so, in something of an 
angry panic, she urged on the • preparations. 


and in a few minutes more General Lennox 
was clattering through the long street of the 
town, on his way to Slowton, and the Lon- 
don horrors of legal consultations, and the 
torture of the slow processes by which those 
whom God hath joined together are sundered. 

“ Send Donica Gwynn to me,” said Lady 
Alice to the servant whom her bell had sum- 
moned to Lady Mary’s boudoir. 

When Donica arrived — 

“ Shut the door, Donica Gwynn,” said she, 
“ and listen. Come a little nearer, please. 
Sir Jekyl Marlowe is ill, and of course, we 
cannot all stay here.” Lady Alice looked at 
her dubiously. 

“ Fit o’ the gout, my Lady, I’m told.” 

“ Yes, an attack of gout.” 

“ It does not hold long with him, not like 
his poor father. Sir Harry, that would lie six 
months at a time in flannel. Sir Jekyl, law 
bless you, my lady 1 He’s often ’ad his toe 
as red as fire overnight, and before supper 
to-morrow walking about the house. He 
says Tomlinson tells me, this will be nothink 
at all ; an’ it might fret him sore, my Lady, 
and bring on a worse fit, to see you all go 
away.” 

“Yes, very true, Gwynn ; but there’s some 
thing more at present,” observed Lady Alice, 
demurely. 

Donica folded her hands, and with curious 
eyes awaited her mistress’s pleasure. 

Lady Alice continued in a slightly altered 
tone — 

“ It’s not altogether that. In fact, Gwynn, 
tfiere has been — you’re not to talk,' d’ye see, 
— I know you don't talk ; but there has been 
— there has been a something — a quarrel— 
between Lady Jane and her husband, the 
General ; and for a time, at least, she will 
remain with me at Wardlock, and I may 
possibly go abroad with her for a little.” 

Donica Gwynn’s pale sharp face grew paler 
and sharper, as during this announcement 
she eyed her mistress askance from her place 
near the door ; and as Lady Alice concluded, 
Donica dropped her eyes to the Turkey car- 
pet, and seemed to read uncomfortable mys- 
teries in its blurred pattern. Then Donica 
looked up sharply and asked — 

“ And please, my lady, what is your lady- 
ship’s orders ?” 

“ Well, Gwynn, you must get a ‘ fly ’ now 
from the town, and go on before us to Ward- 
lock. We shall leave this probably in little 
more than an hour in the carriage. Tell 
Lady Jane, with my compliments, that I 
hope she will be ready by that time — or no, 
you may give her my love — don’t say com- 
pliments — and say, I will either go and see 
her in her room, or if she prefer, I will see 
her here, or anywhere else ; and you can ask 
her what room at Wardlock she would like 
best — do you mind? Whatever room she 
would like best she shall have, except mine^ 
of course, and the moment you get there 
you’ll set about it.” 

' “ Yes, ma’am, please my lady.” 

Donica looked at her mistress as if expect- 
ing something more ; and her mistress looked 
away darkly, and said nothing. 


GUY DEVERELL. 133 


I’ll return, my lady, I suppose, and tell 
you what Miss Jane says, ma’am?” 

“ Do,” answered Lady Alice, and, closing 
her eyes, she made a sharp nod, which Donica 
knew was the signal of dismissal. 

Old Gwynn, mounting the stairs, met Mrs. 
Sinnott with those keys of office which sher 
had herself borne for so many years. 

“ Well, Mrs. Sinnott, ma’am, how’s the 
master now ?” she inquired. 

“ Doctor’s not bin yet from Slowton, Mrs. 
Gwynn ; we don’t know nothink only just 
what you heard this morning from Mr. Tom- 
linson.” 

“ Old Pratt, baint he here neither ?” 

“ No, but the nurse be come.” 

“ Oh ! respeckaUe, I hope ? But no ways, 
Mrs. Sinnott, ma’am, take my advice, and on 
no account don’t you give her her will o’ the 
bottle ; there’s none o’ them hospital people 
but likes it — jest what’s enough, and no more, 
I would say.” 

“ Oh ! no ! no !” answered Mrs. Sinnott, 
scornfully. “ I knows something o’ them 
sort, too— leave ’em to me.” 

“ Lady Alice going away this afternoon.” 

“ And what for, Mrs. Gwynn ?” asked the 
housekeeper. 

“ Sir Jekyl’s gout.” 

“ Fidgets ! Tiresome old lass, baint she ? 
law,” said Mrs. Sinnott, who loved her not. 

“ She don’t know Sir Jekyl’s constitution 
like I does. Them little attacks o’ gout, why 
he makes nothink o’ them, and they goes 
and comes quite ’armless. I’m a-going back 
to Wardlock, Mrs. Sinnott, this morning, and 
. many thanks for all civilities while ’ere, l^st 
I should not see you when a-leavin’.” 

So with the housekeeper’s smiles and c&- 
ventional courtesies, and shaking of hands, 
these ladies parted, and Mrs. Gwynn went on 
to the green chamber. 

As she passed through the Window dress- 
ing-room her heart sank. She knew, as we 
are aware, a good deal about that green 
chamber, more than she had fancied Lady 
Jane suspected. She blamed herself for not 
having talked frankly of it last night. But 
Lady Jane’s eclat of passion at one period of 
their interview had checked her upon any 
such theme ; and after all, what could the 
green chamber have to do with it ? Had not 
the General arrived express very late last 
night ? It was some London story that sent 
him down from town in that hurry, and Sir 
Jekyl laid up in gout too. Some o’ them 
jealous stories, and a quarrel over it. It will 
sure be made up again — ay, ay.” 

And so thinking, she knocked, and receiv- 
ing no answer, she opened the door and 
peeped in. There was but a narrow strip of 
one shutter open. 

“ Miss Jennie, dear,” she called. Still no 
answer. “ Miss Jennie, darling.” No answer 
still. She understood those sulky taciturni- 
ties well, in which feminine tempest some- 
times subsides, and was not at all uneasy. 
On the floor, near the foot of the bed, lay the 
General’s felt hat and travelling coat. Stand- 
ing there, she drew the curtain and saw 
Lady Jane, her face buried in the pillow, and 


her long hair lying wildly on the coverlet 
and hanging over the bedside. 

“ Miss Jennie, dear— Miss Jennie, darling ; 
it’s me— old Donnie, miss. Won’t you speak 
to me ?” 

Still no answer, aiM Donica went round, 
beginning to feel uneasy, to the side where 
she lay. 


CHAPTER LXVHI. 

LADY jane’s toilet. 

“Miss Jennie, darling^ it’s m^,” she re- 
peated, and placed her fingers on the young 
lady’s shoulder. It was with an odd sense 
of relief she saw the young lady turn her 
face away. 

“ Miss Jennie, dear ; it’s me — old Donnie — 
don’t you know me?” cried Donica once 
more. “ Miss, dear, my lady, what’s the 
matter you should take on so ?— only a few 
wry words— it will be all made up, dear.” 

“ Who told you— who says it will be made 
up ?” said Lady Jane, raising her head slowly, 
very pale, and, it seemed to old Gwynn, 
grown so thin in that one night. “ Don’t 
mind — it will never be made up — no, Donnie, 
never ; it oughtn’t. Is my — is General Len- 
nox in the house ?” 

“ Gone down to the town, miss. I’m told, 
in a bit of a tantrum — going off to Lunnon. 
It’s the way wi’ them all — off at a word; 
and then cools, and back again same as 
ever.” 

Lady Jane’s fingers were picking at the 
bed-clothes, and her features were sunk and 
peaked as those of a fever-stricken »girl. 

“ The door is shut to — outer darkness. I 
asked your God for mercy last night, and see 
what he has done for me !” 

“ Come, Miss Jennie, dear, you’ll bq happy 
yet. Will ye come with me to Wardlock ?” 

“ That I will, Donnie,” she answered, with 
a sad alacrity, like a child’s. 

“ I’ll be going, then, in half an hour, and 
you’ll come with me.” 

Lady Jane’s tired wild eyes glanced on the 
gleam of light in the half-open shutter with 
the wavering despair of a captive. 

“ I wish we were there. I wish we were 
— you and I, Donnie— just you and L” 

“ Well, then, what’s to hinder ? My mis- 
sus sends her love by me, to ask you to go 
there, till things be smooth again ’twixt you 
and your old man, which it won’t be long, 
Miss Jennie, dear.” 

“ I’ll go,” said Lady Jane, gliding out of 
her bed toward the toilet, fluttering along in 
her bare feet and night-dress. “ Donnie, 
I’ll go.” 

“That water’s cold, miss; shall I fetch 
hot ?” 

“Don’t mind — no; very nice. Oh, Don- 
nie, Donnie, Donnie ! my heart, nw heart ! 
what is it ?” 

“ Nothink, my dear— nothink, darlin’.” 

“ I wish it w’as dark again.” ' 

“ Time enough, miss.” 

“ That great sun shining ! They’ll all be 
staring. Well, let them.” 


134 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Won’t you get your things on, darling ? 
I’ll dress you. You’ll take cold.” 

“ Oh, Donnie ! I wish I could cry. my 
head ! I don’t know what it is. If I could 
cr^’’ I think I should, be better. I must see 
him, Donnie.” 

“ J3ut he’s gone away, miss.” 

“ Gone ! Is he ?” 

“Ay, sure I told ye so, dear, only this 
minute. To Lunnon, I hear say.” 

“ Oh ! yes, I forgot ; yes. I’ll dress. Let us 
make haste. I wish I knew. Oh ! Donnie, 
Donnie ! oh ! my heart, Donnie, Donnie — 
my heart’s breaking.” 

“ There, miss, dear, don’t take on so; 
you’ll be better when we gets into the air, 
you will. What will ye put on ? — here’s a 
purple mornin’ silk.” 

“ Yes ; very nice. Thank you. Oh ! 
Donnie, I wish we w^ere away.” 

“ So we shall, miss, presently, please God. 
Them’s precious bad pins— Binney and 
Clew — bends like lead ; there^s two on ’em. 
Thompson’s mixed shillin’ boxes — them’s 
the best. Miss Trixie allays has ’em. 
Your hair’s beautiful, m?iss, allays was ; but 
dearie me ! what a lot you’ve got ! and so 
beautiful fine ! I take it in handfuls — fioss 
silk — and the weight of it ! Beautiful hair, 
miss. Dearie me, w’hat some ’id give for 
that !” 

Thus old Gwynn ran on ; but fixed, pale, 
and wild was the face which would once 
have kindled in conscious pride of beauty 
at the honest admiration of old Donnie, who 
did not rise into raptures for everyone and 
on all themes, and whose eulogy was there- 
fore valuable. 

“ I see, Donnie — nothing bad has hap- 
pened ?” said Lady Jane, with a scared glance 
at her face. 

“ Bad ? Nonsense ! I told you. Miss Jen- 
nie, ’twould all be made up, and so it will, 
please God, miss.” 

But Lady Jane seemed in no wise cheered 
by her promises, and after a silence of some 
minutes, she asked suddenly, with the same 
painful look — 

“ Donnie, tell me the truth, for God’s 
sake ; how is he ?” 

Donica looked at her with dark inquiry. 

“ The General is gone, you know, ma’am.” 

“ 8top—yow. cried Lady Jane, seiz- 

ing her fiercely by the arm, with a wild fixed 
stare in her face. 

“ Who ?” said Donica. 

“Not he. I mean” 

“ Who ?” repeated Gwynn. 

“ How is Sir Jekyl ?” 

It seemed as if old Donica’s breath was sus- 
pended. Shade after shade her face dark- 
ened, as with white eyes she stared in the 
gazing face of Lady Jane, who cried, with a 
strange laugh of rage — 

“ Yes — Sir Jekyl — how is he ?” 

“ Oh, Miss Jane ! — oh, Miss Jane ! — oh, 
Miss Jane — and is that it ?” 

Lady Jane’s face was dark with other 
fiercer passions. 

“ Can’t you answer, and not talk ?” said she. 

Donica’s eyes wandered to the far end of 


( the room to the fatal recess, and slie was 
shaking her head, as if over a tale of horror. 

“ Yes, I see, you know it all, and you’ll 
hate me now, as the others will, and I don’t 
care.” 

Suspicions are one thing— faint, phan- 
tasmal; certainties quite another. Donica 
Gwynn looked appalled. 

“ Oh! poor Miss Jennie !” she cried at last 
and burst into tears. Before this old domes 
tic Lady Jane was standing— a statue of 
shame, of defiance— the fallen angelic. 

“ You’re doing that to make me mad.” 

“ Oh ! no, miss ; I’m sorry.” 

There was silence for a good while. 

“ The curse of God’s upon this room,” said 
Donica, fiercely, drying her eyes. “ I wish 
you had never set foot in it. Come away, 
rny lady. I’ll go and send at once for a car- 
riage to the town, and we’ll go together, 
ma’am, to Wardlock. Shall I, ma’am ?” 

“ Yes, I’ll go,” said Lady Jane. “ Let us 
go, you and I. I won’t go with Lady Alice. 

I won’t go with her.” 

“ Good-bye, my lady ; good-bye, Miss Jen- 
nie dear ; I’ll be here again presently.” 

Dressed for the journey, with her cloak 
on and bonnet. Lady Jane sat in an arm- 
chair, haggard, listless, watching the slow 
shufiling of her own foot upon the fioor, 
while Donica departed to complete the ar- 
rangements for their journey. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

THE TWO DOCTORS CONSULT. 

■'The doctor from Slowton had arrived at 
last. The horses, all smoking with the 
break-neck speed at which they had been 
driven, stood at the hall-door steps. The 
doctor himself, with Pratt and the nurse, 
were up-stairs in the patient’s room. The 
Rev. Dives Marlowe, looking uncomfortable 
and bilious, hovered about the back stairs 
that led to Sir Jekyl’s apartment, to waylay 
the doctors on their way down, and listene'd 
for the sound of their voices to gather from 
their tones something of their spirits and 
opinions respecting his brother, about whose 
attack he had instinctive misgivings. The 
interview was a long one. Before it was 
over Dives had gradually ascended to the 
room outside the Baronet’s, and was looking 
out of the window on the prospect below 
with the countenance with which one might 
look on a bad balance-sheet. 

The door opened, the doctors emerged — 
the Slowton man first, Pratt following. Doth 
looking grave as men returning from the 
sacrament. 

“ Oh ! Mr. Dives Marlowe— the Rev.^ Dives 
Marlowe,” murmured Pratt as the door was 
shut. 

The lean practitioner from Slowton bowed 
low, and the ceremony over — 

“Well, gentlemen?” inquired the Rev. 
Dives Marlowe. 

“We are about to compare notes, and 
discuss the case a little — Doctor Pratt and I, 


GUY DEVERELL 


135 


— and we shall then, sir, be in a position to 
say something a— a— definite, we hope.” 

So the Rev. Dives withdrew to tlie stair- 
head, exchanging bows with the priests of 
uEsculapius, andf there awaited the opening 
of the doors. When that event came, and 
the Rev. Dives entered — 

“Well, Mr. Marlowe,” murmured the 
Slowton doctor, a slight and dismal man 
of five-and-fifty — “we think, sir, ^ that your 
brother. Sir Jekyl Marlowe, is not in imme- 
diate danger ; but it would not be right or 
fair to conceal the fact that he is in a very 
critical state — highly so, in fact ; and we 
think it better on the whole that some mem- 
ber of his family should advise him, if he 
has anything to arrange — a — a will, or any 
particular business, that he should see to it ; 
and w^e think that — we are quite agreed upon 
this. Doctor Pratt ?” 

Pratt bowed assent, forgetful that he had 
not yet heard what they were agreed on. 

“ We think he should be kept very quiet ; 
he’s very low, and must have claret. We 
have told the nurse in what quantities 
to administer it, and some other things; 
she’s a very intelligent woman, and your 
servants can take their directions from her.” 

Dives felt very oddly. We talk of Death 
all our lives, but know nothing about him 
until he stands in our safe homesteads sud- 
denly before us, face to face. He is a much 
grizzlier object than we had fancied when 
busied with a brother or a child. What he 
is when he comes for ourselves the few who 
have seen him waiting behind the doctor 
and live can vaguely remember. 

“ Good Lord, sir ! ” said Dives, “ is he real- 
ly in that state ? I had no idea. ” 

“Don’t m\^4aJce us, sir. We don’t say he 
may not, if everything goes right, do very 
well. Only the case is critical, and we 
should deceive you if we shrank from telling 
you so ; is not that your view, Doctor — Dr. 
Pratt ? ” 

Dr. Pratt was of course quite clear on the 
point. 

“ And you are in very able hands here, ” 
and the Slowton doctor waved his yellow 
fingers and vouchsafed a grave smile and 
nod of approbation toward Pratt, who wish- 
ed to look indifferent under the compliment, 
but simpered a little in spite of himself. 

The Rev. Dives Marlowe accompanied the 
two doctors down- stairs, looking like a man 
goins: to execution. 

“ You need not be afraid, sir,” said Dives, 
laying his hand on the Slowton leech’s 
sleeve. The grave gentleman stopped and 
inclined his ear to listen, and the three stood 
huddled together on the small landing. Dives’ 
nervous fingers in the banister. 

“ I don’t quite see, sir,” observed the 
doctor. 

“ I give him up, sir ; you need not be afraid 
to tell me.” 

“ You are right, perhaps, to give him up ; 
but I always say exactly what I think. 
Doctor — a — Pratt and I — we tell you frankly 
-—we think him in a very critical state ; but, 
it’s quite on the cards he may recover ; and 


we have given very full directions to the nurse, 
who appears to be a very intelligent person ; 
and don’t let him shift his attitude unnecessa- 
rily, it may prejudice him, and be in fact 
attended with danger — very serious danger ; 
and Doctor Pratt shall fook in at five o’clock 
— you were so good as to say. Dr. Pratt, you 
would look in at five. Doctor Pratt will 
look in tlien^ and do anything that may be 
necessary; and if there should be the slight- 
est symptom of haemorrhage send for him in- 
stantly, and the nurse knows what to do; 
and I think — I think I have said everything 
now.” 

“ Haemorrhage, sir ! But what haemor- 
rhage? Why, wdiat haemorrhage is appre- 
hended ?” asked Dives^ amazed. 

“ Internal or external it may occur,” said 
the doctor ; and Pratt, coughing and shaking 
his chops, interposed hurriedly and said — 

“ Yes, there may be a bleeding, it may 
come to that.” 

“ He has bled a great deal already you are 
aware,” resumed the Slowton doctor, “ and in 
his exhausted state a return of that might of 
course be very bad.” 

“ But I don’t understand,” persisted Dives. 
“ I beg pardon, but I really must. What is 
this haemorrhage ? it is not connected with 
gout, is it ?” 

“ Gout, sir ! no ; who said gout ? A bad 
wound, that seems to run toward the lung,” 
answered the Slowton man. 

“Wound? how’s this? I did not hear,” 
and Dives looked frightened, and inquiringly 
on Pratt, who said — 

“ Hot hear, didn’t you ? Why, Sir Jekyl 
undertook to tell you, and would not let me. 
He took me in for a while, poor fellow, quite, 
and said ’twas gout, that’s all. I’m surprised 
he did not tell you.” 

“ Ho— — not a word ; "and — and you 
think, sir, it may begin bleeding afresh ?” 

“ That’s what we chiefiy apprehend. Fare- 
well, sir. I find I have not a moment. I 
must be in Todmore in three quarters of an 
hour. A sad case that at Todmore ; only a 
question of a few days. I’m' afraid; and a 
very fine 5^oung fellow.” 

“ Yes,” said jBives — “ I — I — it takes me by 
surprise. Pray, Dr. Pratt, don’t go for a 
moment,” and he placed his hand on his arm. 

“ Farewell, sir,” said the Slowton doctor, 
and putting up his large gold watch, and 
bowing gravely, he ran at a quiet trot down 
the stairs, and jumped into his chaise at the 
back entrance, and vanished. 

“ You did not tell me,” began Dives. 

“ Ho,” said Pratt, promptly, “ he said he’d 
tell himself^ and did not choose me.” 

“ And you think — ^you think it’s very bad ?” 

“ Very bad, sir.” 

“ And you think he’ll not get over it ?’’ " ' 

“ He may not, sir.’ 

“ It’s frightful, doctor, frightful. And how 
was it, do you know ?” 

“ Ho more than the man in the moon. 
You must not tease him with questions, mind, 
to-day. In a day or two you may ask him. 
But he said, upon his honor, no one was to 
blame but himself.” 


136 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Merciful Heavens ! sir. To think of his 
going this way !” 

“ Very sad, sir. But we’ll do all we can, 
and possibly may pull him through.” 

With slow steps Dives began to ascend the 
stairs towards his brother’s room. He recol- 
lected that he had not bid Pratt good-bye, and 
gave him his adieu x over the banister ; and 
then with, slow and creaking steps, mounted, 
and paused on the lobby, to let his head 
clear and to think how he should accost him. 

Dives was not a churchman to pester 
people impertinently about their sins ; and 
out of the pulpit, where he lashed the vice, 
but spared the man, he was a well-bred divine, 
and could talk of sheep, and even of horses, 
and read everything from St. Paul to Paul 
de Kock, and had ridden till lately after the 
hounds, and gave recherche little dinners, such 
as the New Testament character whose name, 
with a difference in pronunciation, he inheri- 
ted might have praised, and well-iced cham- 
pagne, which, in his present uncomfortable 
state, that fallen gentleman would have rel- 
ished. And now he stood in a sombre mood, 
with something of panic at the bottom of it, 
frightened that the ice upon which men held 
Vanity Pair, and roasted oxen, and piped and 
danced, and gamed, should prove so thin ; 
and amazed to see his brother drowning 
among the fragments in that black pool, and 
no one minding, and he unable to help him. 

And it came to him like a blow and a 
spasm. “ The special minister of Christ ! — 
am I what I’m sworn to be ? Can I go in and 
talk to him of those things that concern eter- 
nity with any effect? Will he mind me? 
Can I even now feel the hope, and lead the 
prayer as I ought to do ? ” 

And Dives, in a sort of horror, as from the 
pit, lifted up his eyes, and prayed “ have 
mercy on me !” and saw a misspent hollow 
life behind, and judgment before him ; and 
blamed himself too, for poor Jekyl, and felt 
something of the anguish of his namesake in 
the parable, and yearned for the safety of his 
brother. ^ 

Dives, in fact, was frightened for himself 
and for Jekyl, and in those few moments on 
the lobby, his sins looked gigantic and the 
vast future all dismay ; and he felt that, 
bad as poor Jekyl might be, he wa^ worse — 
a false soldier — a Simon Magus — chaff, to be 
burnt up with unquenchable fire ! 

“ I wish to God the Bishop had stayed over 
this night,” said Dives, with clasped hands, 
and again turning his eyes upward. “We 
must send after him. •^I’ll write to implore 
him. Oh, yes, he’ll come.” 

Even in this was a sense of relief; and 
treading’ more carefully, he softly turned the 
handle of the outer door, and listened, and 
heard Jekyl’s cheerful voice say a few words 
to the nurse. He sighed with a sense of 
relief, and calling up a sunnier look, he 
knocked at Jekjd’s half-open door, and 
stepped to his bedside. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

VAKBAKKIERE IN THE SICK-ROOM. 

“Well, Jekyl, my dear fellow — and how 


do you feel now ? There, don’t ; you must 
not move, they told me,” said Dives, taking 
his brother’s hand, and looking with very 
anxious eyes in his face, while he managed 
his best smile. 

“ Pretty well — nothing. Have they been 
talking? What do they say?” asked Sir 
Jekyl. 

“S^y? Well, not much; those fellows 
never do ;,but they expect to have you all 
right again, if you’ll iust do what you’re bid, 
in a week or two.” 

“ Pratt’s coming at five,” he said. “ What 
is it now ?” 

Dives held his watchto Jekyl, who nodded. 

“ Do you think I’ll get over it. Dives ?” he 
asked at length, rather ruefully. 

“ Get over ? To be sure you will,” an- 
swered Dives, doing his best. “ It might 
be better for you, my dear Jekyl if it were 
a little more serious. We all need to be 
pulled up a little now and then. And there’s 
nothing like an alarm of— of that kind for 
making a man think a little ; for, after all, 
health is only a long day, and a recovery 
but a reprieve. The sentence stands against 
us, and we must, sooner or later, submit.” 

“ Yes, to be sure. We’re all mortal. Dives 
— is not that your discovery?” said Sir 
Jekyl. 

“ A discovery it is, my dear fellow, smile 
as we may— a discovery to me, and to you, 
and to all— whenever the truth, in its full 
force, opens on our minds.” 

“ That’s when we’re going to die, I sup- 
pose,” said Sir Jekyl. 

“ Then^ of course ; but often, in the mercy 
of God, long before it. That, in fact, is 
what we call people’s growing serious, or 
religious ; their perceiving, as a fact, that 
they are mortal, and resolving to make the 
best preparation they can for the journey.” 

“ Come, Dives, hav’nt those fellows been 
talking of me — eh ? — as if I were worse than 
you say ?” asked the Baronet, oddly. 

“ The doctors, you mean ? They said ex- 
actly what I told you. But it is not, my 
dear Jekyl, when we are sick and frightened, 
and maybe despairing, that these things are 
best thought on ; but when we are, like you 
and me, likely to live and enjoy Wfa—then is 
the time. I’ve been thinking myself, my 
dear Jekyl, a good deal for some time past. 
I have been living too much in the spirit of 
the world : but I hope to do better.” 

“To do better— to be sure. , You’ve al- 
ways been hoping to do better ; and I’ve 
given you a iift or two,” said the Baronet, 
who, in truth, never much affected his bro- 
ther’s pulpit-talk, as he called it, and was 
falling into his old cynical vein. 

“ But seriously, my dear fellow, I do. My 
mind has been troubled thinking how un- 
worthy I have been of my calling, and how 
fruitles shave been my opportunities, my 
dear brother, with you. I’ve never improved 
them ; and I’d be so glad— now we are likely 
to have a few days — if you’ll let me read a 
little with you.” 

“ Sermons, do you mean ?” interposed the 
Baronet. 


GUY DEYERELL. 


137 


“Well, wliat’s better? a little of the 
Bible ?” 

“ Come now, Dives, those doctors Im'ce 
been shaking their heads over me. I say, 
on must tell me. Do they say I’m in a 
ad way ?” 

“ They think you’ll recover.” 

“ Did they tell you what it is ?” 

“ Yes. A wound.” 

“ They had no business, d them,” said 

Sir Jekyl, flushing. 

“ Don’t, don’t, my dear Jekyl ; they could 
not help it. I pressed that doctor— I forget 
his name — and he really could not help say- 
ing.” 

“ Well, well, it doesn’t much signify ; I’d 
have told you myself by-and-by. But you 
must not tell— I’ve a reason— you must not 
tell anyone, mind. It was my fault, and 
I’m greatly to blame ; and I’ll tell you in a 
little while — a day or two — all about it.” 

“ Yes, so you can. But, my dear Jekyl, you 
look much fatigued ; vou are exerting your- 
self.” 

Here the nurse interposed with the claret- 
jug, and intimated that the Rev. Dives was 
making her patient feverish, and indeed 
there was an unpleasantly hot hectic in each 
cheek. But the Baronet had no notion of 
putting himself under the command of the 
supernumerary, and being a contumacious 
and troublesome patient, told her to sit in 
the study and leave him alone. 

“ I’ve a word to say. Dives. I must sec 
that fellow Herbert Strangways.” 

“ Who said Dives, a good deal alarmed, 
for he feared that his brother’s mind was 
wandering. 

“ Herbert — that fellow Yarbarriere. I 
forgot I had not told you. Herbert Strang- 
ways, you remember ; they’re the same. And 
I want to see him. Better now than to- 
morrow. I may be feverish then.” 

“By Jove ! It’s very surprising. Do you 
really mean ” 

“ Yes ; he is. I do ; they are the same. 
You remember Herbert, of course — Herbert 
Strangways — the fellow I had that long 
chase after all over Europe. He has things 
to complain of, you know, and we might as 
well square the account in a friendlier way, 
eh ?— don’t you think?” 

“ And was it he — was there any alterca-' 
tion ?” stammered Dives. 

“ That did this, you mean,” said Sir Jekyl, 
moving his hand toward the wound “ Hot 
a bit — no. He seems reasonable ; and I 
should like — you know they are very old 
blood, and there’s nothing against it — that 
all should be made up. And if that young 
fellow and Beatrix— don t you see ? Is Tom- 
linson there ?” 

“ In the outer room,” said Dives. 

“Call him. Tomlinson, I say, you take 
my compliments to Monsieur Yarbarriere, 
and say, if he has no objection to see me for 
a few minutes here, I should be very happy. 
Try and make him out, and bring me word.” 

So Tomlinson disappeared. 

“ And, Dives, it tires me ; — so will you — 
rm sure you will — see Belter, after , we’ve 


spoken with Aat fellow Herbert, and consult 
what we had nest do, you know. I dare say 
the young people would come to like one 
another — ^he’s a fine young fellow ; and that, 
you know, would be the natural way of 
settling it — better than law or fighting.” 

“ A great deal — a great deal, certainly.” 

“ And you may tell him I have that thing 
— the deed, you know — my poor father ” ^ 

“ I — I always told you, my dear Jekyl, I’d 
rather know "nothing of all that — in fact, I 
do know nothing ; and I should not like to 
speak to Belter on that subject. You can 
another time, you know,” said Dives. 

“ Well, it’s in the red trunk in there.” 

“ Bray, dear Jekyl, don’t — I assure you I’d 
rather know nothing — I— I can’t ; and Belter 
will understand you better when he sees you. 
But I’ll talk to him with pleasure about the 
other thing, and I quite agree with you that 
any reasonable arrangement is better than 
litigation.” 

“ Very well, be it so,” said Sir Jekyl, very 
tired. 

“ I’m always drinking claret now — give me 
some — the only quick way of making blood 
— I’ve lost a lot.” 

“ And you must not talk so much, Jekyl,” 
said Dives, as he placed the glass at his lips ; 
“ you’ll wear yourself out.” 

“ Yes, I am tired,” said the Baronet ; “ I’ll 
rest till Strangways comes.” 

And he closed his eyes, and was quiet for 
a time. And Dives, leaning back in his 
chair at the bedside, felt better assured of 
Jekyl’s recovery, and his thoughts began to 
return to their wonted channel, and he enter- 
tained himself with listlessly reading and 
half understanding a tedious sculling match 
in a very old copy of “ Bell’s Life,” which 
happened to lie near him. 

A tap at the outer door called up Dives 
from Sandy Dick’s sweep round a corner, and 
Jekyl said — 

“ Tell him to come in — and stay — you’re 
not to say I’m hurt — do you mind ?” 

“ My dear Jekyl, I — I shan’t say anything. 
There he’s knocking again.” 

“ Well, tell him — come in I” 

“ Come in !” echoed Dives, in a louder 
key. 

And Monsieur Yarbarriere entered with 
that mysterious countenance and cautious 
shuffle with which men enter a sick-cham- 
ber. 

“ Yery sorry to hear you’ve been suffering,” 
began Yarbarriere, in a low tone. 

“ Thanks — you’r« very good. I’m sure,” 
said Sir Jekyl, with a faint smile. “ I — I 
wished very much to see you. I expect to 
be better very soo^i, and I thought I might 
have a word, as you are so good, in the 
meantime.” 

“Yery happy, indeed — most happy, as 
long as you pldase ; but you must not try too 
much. You know they say you may disturb 
gout if you try too much, particularly at 
first,” said Yarbarriere, knowing very well 
how little gout had really to do with it. 

“ Oh ! no danger — doing very nicely,” said 
Sir Jekyl. ^ 


138 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ That’s well — that’s very good,” said Yar- 
barriere, with a leisurely sympatliy, looking 
on him all the time, and calling to mind how 
the Comte de Yigny looked after he received 
the sword- thrust of which he died in Yarbar- 
riere’s house, to which he had been carried 
after his duel with young D’Harnois. And 
he came to the conclusion that Sir Jekyl 
looked a great deal better than the Comte 
had done — and, in fact, that he would do 
very well. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

GUr DEVERELL ARRIVES. 

“ Sit down, Herbert, I shan’t keep you 
long. There ^ I’ve just been saying to Dives 
I Jhink it’s a pity we should quarrel any 
more — that is, if we can help it ; and I don’t 
see why we should not be friendly — I mean 
more friendly than, in fact, we have ever 
been — I don’t ; do you ?” 

“ Why, I see no reason — none ; that is, of 
course, with the reservations that are — that 
are always assumed — I don’t see any.” 

Yarbarriere was answering plausibly, po- 
litely, smiling. But it was not like last night, 
when for a few transient moments he had 
seemed moved from his equilibrium. There 
was no emotion now. It was diplomatic 
benignity. Still it was something. Here 
w^as his foe wdlling to hear reason. 

“ It was just in my mind — Dives and I 
talking— I think I’ve seen some signs of lik- 
ing between the young people — I mean your 
nephew and Beatrix.” 

“ Indeed !” interrupted Yarbarriere, pro- 
longing the last syllable after his wont, and 
raising his thick eyebrows in very naturally 
acted wonder. 

“ Well, 5 ^es— only a sort of conjecture, you 
know — haven’t you ?” 

“ Well, I— ha, ha ! If I ever observed 
anything, it hasn’t remained in my mind. 
But she is so lovely— Miss Marlowm— that I 
should not w^onder. And you think ” 

“ I think,” said Sir Jekyl, supplying the 
pause, “ if it be so, w^e ought not to stand in 
the way; and here’s Dives, who thinks so 
too.” 

“ I— in fact, my brother, Jekyl, mentioned 
it, of course, to me— it would be a very happy 
mode of — of making msiUers—ii—happy ; 
and— and that, I think, was all that passed,” 
said Dives, thus unexpectedly called into the 
debate. 

“ This view^ comes on me quite by surprise. 
That the young fellow should adore at such 
a shrine is but to suppose him mortal,” said 
Yarbarriere, with something of his French 
air. “ But— but you know the young lady— 
that’s quite another thing— quite. Young 
ladies, you know, are not won all in a mo- 
ment.” 

“ Xo, of course. We are so far all in the 
clouds. But I wished to say so much to 
vou ; andH prefer talking face to face, in a 
friendly way, to sending messages through 
an attorney.” 

“ A thousand thanks. I value the confi- 


dence, I assure you— yes, much better— quite 
right. And — and I shall be taking my leave 
to-morrow morning — business, my dear Sir 
Jekyl— and greatly regret it; but I’ve out- 
stayed my time very considerably.” 

“ Yery sorry too— and only too happy if 
you could prolong it a little. Could you, do 
you think ?” 

Yarbarriere shook his head, and thanked 
him with a grave smile again— but it was 
impossible. 

“ It is a matter — such an arrangement, 
should it turn out practicable— on which we 
should reflect and perhaps consult a little. 
It sounds not unpromisingly, however ; we 
can talk again perhaps, if you allow it, before 
I go.” 

“ So we can — you won’t forget, and I shall 
expect to see you often and soon, mind.” 

And so for the present they parted. Dives 
politely seeing him to the head of the stairs. 

“ I think he entertains it,” said Sir Jekyl 
to his brother. 

“Yes, certainly, he does— yes, he enter- 
tains it. But I suspect he’s a cunning fel- 
low ; and you’ll want all the help you can 
get, Jekyl, if it comes to settling a bargain.” 

“ I dare say,” said Sir Jekyl, very tired. 
Meanwhile our friend Yarbarriere was 
passing through the conservatory, the outer 
door of which stood open ever so little, tem- 
pering the warmth of its artificial atmos- 
phere. He stopped before a file of late 
exotics, looking at them with a grave mean- 
ing smile, and smelling at them abstractedly. 

“ Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or 
the leopard his spots? Selfish rogue! 
Could it be? A wedding, in which Guy, 
the son of that murdered friend, should act 
bridegroom, and the daughter of his mur- 
derer, bride ; while he, the murderer, stood 
by smiling, and I, the witness, cried ‘ amen’ 
to the blessing 1 DisgusUng ! Never, never 
— bah! The proposition shows weakness. 
Good — very good 1 A come-down for you. 
Master Jekyl, when you sue for an alliance 
with Herbert Strangways ! Oh ! ho 1 ho ! 
Nerer 

A little while later, Yarbamere, who was 
standing at the hall-door steps, saw a chaise 
approaching. He felt a presentiment of 
what was coming. It pulled up at the door. 

“ No melodrama — no fracas — no foolery. 
Those young turkeys, my faith ! they will 
be turkeys still. Here he comes, the hero 
of the piece I Well, what does it matter?” 
This was not articulated, spoken only in 
thought, and aloud he said — 

“Hal- Guy?” 

And the young man was on the ground 
in a moment, pale and sad, and hesitated 
deferentially, not knowing how his uncle 
might receive him. 

“ So, here you are,” said Yarbarriere, coolly 
but not ill-humoredly. “ Those rambles of 
yours are not much to the purpose, my friend, 
and cost some.mone}^ — don’t you see ?” 

Guy bowed sadly, and looked, Yarbarriere 
saw, really distressed. 

“ Well, never mind— the expense need not 
trouble us,” said Yarbarriere, carelessly ex- 


GUY DEVERELL. 139 


tending his hand, which Guy took. “We 
may he very good friends in a moderate 
way ; and I’m not sorry you came, on the 
whole. Don’t mind going in for a few min- 
iates— you’re very well — and let us come this 
way for a little.” 

So side by side they turned the corner of 
the house, and ])aced up and down the broad 
quiet walk under the windows. 

“ We must leave this immediately, Guy ; 
Sir Jekyl is ill— more seriously, I believe, 
than they fancy ; not dangerously, but still 
a tedious thing. They call it gout, but I be- 
lieve there is something more.” 

“ Indeed ! How sudden !” exclaimed Guy. 
And to do him justice, he seemed both 
shocked and sad, although perhaps all his 
sorrow was not on Sir Jekyl’s account. 

“ And I’ll be frank with you, Guy,” con- 
tinued Vaibarriere. “ I think I can see 
plainly, maybe, what has drawn you here. 
It is not I— it is not business — it is not Sir 
Jekyl. Who or what can it be ?” 

“I — I thought, sir, my letter had ex- 
plained.” 

“ And I’m going away in the morning — 
and some of the party probably to-day ; for 
there’s no chance of Sir Jekyl’s coming down 
for some time,” continued Varbarriere, not 
seeming to hear Guy’s interruptions. 

“ Very sorry!” said Guy, sincerely, and 
his eyes glanced along the empty windows. 

“ And so, you see, this visit here leads 
pretty much to nothing,” continued Varbar- 
riere. “ And it might be best to keep that 
carriage for a few minutes — eh? — and get 
into it, and drive back again to Slowton.” 

“ Immediately, sir ?” 

“ Immediately— yes. I’ll join you there 
in the morning, and we can talk over your 
plans then. I do not know exactly— we 
must consider. I don’t want to part in un- 
kindness. I wish to give you a lift, Guy, if 
you’ll let me.” So said Varbarriere in his 
off-hand way. 

Guy bowed deferentially. 

“And see, nephew; there’s a thing— 
teridy if you please,” said Varbarriere, lower- 
ing his voice. 

“ I attend, sir.” 

“ See— you answer upon your honor — do 
yon hear ?” 

“ I do, sir. You hear nothing but truth 
from me.” 

“ Well, yes — very good. Is there — have 
you any correspondence in this house ?” de- 
manded the ponderous uncle, and his full 
dark eyes turned suddenly oh the young 
man. 

“ No, sir, no correspondence.” 

“ No one writes to you?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“Nor you to anyone ?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ There must be no nonsense of that kind, 
Guy— I’ve told you so before— put it quite 
out of your head. You ^ need not speak— I 
am merely discussing a hypothesis — quite 
out of your head. Nothing could ever come 
of it but annoyance. You know, of course, 
to whom all this relates ; and I tell you it 


can’t be. There are reasons you shall hear 
elsewhere, which are final.” 

What Guy might have answered does not 
appear, for at that moment old Doocey 
joined them. 

“ Oh 1 come back — how d’ye do ? — going 
to break up here, I fancy this was to Var- 
barriere ; “ Sir Jekyl’s in for a regular fit of 
it evidently. Old Sir Paul Blunket was talk- 
ing to Pratt, their doctor- here — and old fel- 
lows, you know, go into particulars” 
(Doocey, of course, was rather a young fel- 
low), “ and generally know more about things 
of this sort — and he says Dr. Pratt thinks 
he’ll not be on his legs for a month, egad. 
So he says he’s going either to-night or to- 
morrow — and I’m off this evening ; so is 
Linnett. Can I do anything for you at 
Llandudno ? Going there first, and I want 
to see a little of North Wales before the 
season grows too late.” 

Varbarriere was grateful, but had nothing 
to transmit to Llandudno. 

“ And — and Drayton — he's going to stay,” 
and he looked very sly. “An attraction, 
you know, there ; besides, I believe he’s 
related — is not he ? — and, of course, old Lady 
Alice Redcliffe stays for chaperon. A great 
chance for Drayton.” 

There was a young man at his elbow who 
thought Doocey the greatest coxcomb and 
fool on earth, except, perhaps, Drayton, and 
who suffered acutely and in silence under 
his talk. 

“Drayton’s very spoony on her — eh? — 
the young lady. Miss Marlowe — haven’t you 
observed ?” murmured old Doocey, with a 
sly smile, to Varbarriere. 

“ Very suitable it would be — fine estate, 
I’m told,” answered Varbarriere; “and a 
good-looking young fellow too.” 

A.— rather^' acquiesced Doocey. “The 
kind of fellow that pays very well in a ball- 
room ; he’s got a lot to say for himself.” 

“ And good family,” contributed Varbar- 
riere, who was not sorry that old Doocey 
should go on lowering his extinguisher on 
Guy’s foolish fiame. 

Well — 'weW— family, you know — there’^ 
nothing very much of that — they — they 
there was — it’s not the family name, you 
know. But no one minds family now — all 
money — we'ro a devilish deal better family, 
and so is Mr. Strangways here — all to noth- 
ing. I was telling him the other day who 
the Draytons are.” 

Precisely at this moment, through a half- 
open upper window, there issued a sudden 
cry, followed by sobs and women’s gabble. 

All stopped short — silent, and looking 
up— 

“ Some one crying,” exclaimed Doocey, in 
an under-key 

And they listened again. 

“ Nothing bad, I hope,” muttered Varbar- 
riere, anxiously looking up like the rest. 

A maid came to the window to raise the 
sash higher, but paused, seeing them* 

“ Come away, I say — hadn’t we better ? ” 
whispered Doocey. 

“ Let’s go in and ask how he is ” suggested 


140 


GUY DEVERELL. 


Yarbarriere suddenly, and toward the hall- 
door they walked. 

Was it something in the tone and cadence 
of this cry that made each in that party of 
three feel that a dreadful tragedy was con- 
summated ? I can’t say — only they walked 
faster than usual and in silence, like men 
anticipating evil news and hastening to a 
revelation. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

I AM THINE AND THOU AHT MINE, BODY 
AND SOUL, FOR EVER ! 

In order to understand the meaning of this 
cry it will be necessary to mention that so 
soon as the corpulent and sombre visitor had 
left the bed-room of Sir Jekyl Marlowe, 
Dives lent his reverend aid to the nurse in 
adjusting his brother more comfortably in 
his bed; and he, like Yarbarriere, took in- 
stinctively a comfortable and confident view 
of Sir Jekyl’s case, so that when the officious 
handmaid'of ^sculapius assumed her airs of 
direction he put aside her interference rather 
shortly. At all events, there was abundance 
of time to grow alarmed in, and certainly no 
need for panic just now.. So Dives took his 
leave for the present, the Baronet having 
agreed with him that his visitors had better 
be allowed to disperse to their own homes, 
a disposition to do so having manifested itself 
here and there among them. 

Sir Jekyl, a little more easy in consequence 
of these manipulations, was lying back on 
pillows, with that pleasant confidence in his 
case at which a sanguine man so easily ar- 
rives, and already beginning to amuse him- 
self with pictures in the uncertain future. 
The hospital nurse, sitting by a fire in that 
dim and faded study which opened from 
the sick-room, now and then rose, and with 
soundless steps drew near the half-open 
door, and sometimes peeped, and sometimes 
only listened. The patient was quiet. The 
woman sat down in that drowsy light, and 
ruminated, looking into tht: fire, with her 
feet on the fender, and a good deal of stock- 
ing disclosed ; when, all on a sudden, she 
heard a rustling of a loose dress near her, 
and looking over her shoulder, surprised, 
still more so, saw a pale and handsome lady 
cross the floor from near the’ window to the 
door of Sir Jekyl’s room, which she closed 
as she entered it. 

With her mouth open, the nurse stood up 
and gazed in the direction in which she had 
disappeared. Sir Jekyl, on the other hand, 
witnessed her entrance with a silent amaze- 
ment, scarcely less than the nurse’s. A few 
hurried steps brought her to his bedside, 
and looking down upon him with great 
agony, and her hands, clasped together, she 
said, with a kind of sob — 

“ Thank God, thank God ! — alive, alive ! 
Oh, Jekyl, what hours of torture !” 

“ Ali^^e ! to be sure I’m alive, little fool !” 
said the Baronet, with an effort, smiling un- 
comfortably. “ They have not been telling 
you it’s anything serious ?” 


“ They told me nothing. I’ve heard 
nothing. I’ve seen no one but Gwynn. Oh, 
Jekyl ! tell me the truth ; what do they say ? 
— there’s so much blood on the floor.” 

“Why, my precious child, don’t worry 
yourself about it ; they evidently think if's 
nothing at all. I know its nothing, only 
what they call, just, the muscles — you know 
— a little sore. I’ll be on my legs again in a 
week.” 

“ I’m going to Wardlock, Jekyl ; you’ll 
hear news of me from there.” > 

Had the tone or the look something in- 
effably ominous ? I know not. 

“ Come Jennie, none of that,” he answered. 
“ ISTo folly. I’ve behaved very badly, i’ve 
been to blame ; altogether my fault. Don’t 
tease yourself about what can’t be helped. 
We must not do anything foolish, though. 
I’m tired of the world ; so are you, Jennie ; 
we are both sick of it. If we choose to live 
out of it, what the plague do we really 
lose ?” 

At this moment the nurse, slowly opening 
the door a little, said, with a look of quiet 
authority — 

“ Please, sir, the doctor said particular 
you were not to tulk, sir.” 

“ D n you and the Doctor — get out of 

that, and shut the door !” cried the Baronet ; 
and the woman vanished, scared. 

“ Give me yonr hand, Jennie darling, and 
don’t look as if the sky had fallen. I’m not 
going to make my bow yet, I promise you.” 

“ And then, I suppose, a duel,” said Lady 
Jane, wringing her hands in agony. 

“ Duel, you little fool ! Why there’s no 
such thing now, that is, in these countries. 
Put fighting quite out of your head, and 
listen to me. You’re right to keep quiet 
for a little time, and Wardlock is as good a 
place as any. I shall be all right again in a 
few days.” 

“ I can look no one in the face ; no — 
never again — and Beatrix ; and — oh, Jekyl, 
how will it be ? I am half wild.” 

“ To be sure, everyone’s half wild when 
an accident happens, till they find it really 
does not signify two pence. Can’t you 
listen to me, and not run from one thing t6 
another ? and I’ll tell you everything.” 

With a trembling hand he poured some 
claret into a tumbler and drank it off, and 
was stronger. 

He’ll take steps, you know, and I’ll help 
all I can ; and when you’re at liberty, by 

I’ll marry you, Jane, if you’ll accept 

me. Upon my honor and soul, Jennie, I’ll 
do exactly whatever you like. Don't look 
so. What frightens you ? I tell you we’ll 
be happier than you can think or imagine.” 

Lady Jane was crying wildly and bitterly. 

“ Fifty times happier than ever we could 
have been if this — this annoyance had not 
happened. We’ll travel. I’ll lay myself out 
to please you, every way, and make yon 
happy ; upon my soul I will, Jennie. I owe 
you everything t can do. We’ll travel. We’ll 
not try Pharisaical England, but abroad, 
where people have common sense. Don’t, 
don’t go on crying, darling, that way ; you 


GUY DEVERELL. 


can’t hear me ; and there’s really nothing to 
tease yourself about— quite the contrary, 
you’ll see ; you’ll like the people abroad much 
better than here— more common sense and 
good nature ; positively better people, and a 
devilish deal more agreeable and— and cle- 
verer. And why do you go on crying, Jennie ? 
You must not ; hang it ! you’ll put me in the 
dumps. You don’t seem to hear me.” 

“ Yes, I do, I do ; but it’s all over, Jekyl, 
and I have come to bid you farewell, and on 
earth we’ll never meet again,” said Lady 
Jane, still weeping violently. 

“ Come, little Jennie, you shan’t talk like a 
fool. I’ve heard you long enough ; you must 
listen to me— I have more to say.” 

“ Jekyl, Jekyl, I am sorry— oh ! I’m sorry, 
for your sake, and for mine, I ever saw your 
face, and sorrier that I am to see you no 
more ; but I’ve quite made up my mind — no- 
thing shall change me— nothing— never. 
Good-bye, Jekyl. God forgive us. God bless 
you.” 

“ Come, Jane, I say, don’t talk that way. 
What do you mean ?” said the Baronet, hold- 
ing her hand fast in his, and with his other 
hand encircling her wrist. ^ If you really do 
want to make me ill, Jennie, you’ll talk in 
that strain. I know, of course. I’ve been 
very much to blame. It was all my fault,— 
I said— I everything ; but you will be 

free, Jennie. I wish I had been worthy of 
you ; I wish I had. No, you must not go. 
Wait a moment. I say, Jennie, I wish to 
Heaven I had made you marry me when 
you might ; but I’ll not let you go now ; by 
heaven. I’ll never run a risk of losing you 
again.” 

“ No, Jekyl, no. I’ve made up my mind ; it 
is all no use. I’ll go. It is all over— quite 
over, for ever. Good-bye, Jekyl. God bless 
you. You’ll be happier when we have 
parted— in a few days — a great dea^ happier ; 
and as for me, I think I’m broken-hearted.” 

“ ]3y ^ Jennie, you shan’t go. I’ll 

make you swear ; you shall be my wife— by 
Heaven, you shall ; we’ll live and die togeth- 
er. You’ll be happier than ever you were ; 
we have years of happiness. I’ll be whatever 
you like. I’ll go to church — I’ll be a Pusey- 
ite, or a Papist, or anything you like best. 

I’ll-ni” 

And with these words Sir Jekyl let go her 
hand suddenly, and with a groping motion 
in the air, dropped back on the pillows. 
Lady Jane cried wildly for help, and tried to 
raise him. The nurse was at her side, she 
knew not how. In ran Tomlinson, who, 
without waiting for directions, dashed water 
in his face. Sir Jekyl lay still, with waxen 
face, and a fixed deepening stare. 

“ Looks awful bad 1” said Tomlinson, gaz- 
ing downoipon him. 

“ The wine — the claret !” cried the woman, 
as she propped him under the head. 

“ My God ! what is it ?” said Lady Jane, 
with white lips. ’ 

The woman made no answer, but rather 
shouldered her, as she herself held the de- 
canter to his mouth ; and they could hear 
the glass clinking on his teeth as her hand 


141 

trembled, and the claret fiowed over his still 
lips and down his throat. 

. “ Lower his head,” said the nurse ; and she 
wiped his shining forehead with his hand- 
kerchief ; and all three stared in his face, pale 
and stern. 

“ Call the doctor,” at last exclaimed the 
nurse. “ He’s not right.” 

“ Doctor’s gone, I think,” said Tomlinson, 
still gaping on his master. 

“ Send for him, man i I tell ye,” cried the 
nui’se, scarce taking her eyes from the Baro- 
net. 

Tomlinson disappeared. 

“ Is he better ?” asked Lady Jane, with a 
gasp. 

“ He’ll never be better ; I’m afeared he’s 
gone, ma’am,” answered the nurse, grimly, 
looking on his open mouth, and wiping away 
the claret from his chin. 

“ It can’t be, my good Lord ! it can’t — 
quite well this minute — talking — why, it 
can’t — it’s only weakness, nurse ! for God’s 
sake, he’s not — it is not — it can’t be,” almost 
screamed Lady Jane. 

The nurse only nodded her head sternly, 
with her eyes still riveted on the face before 
her. 

“ He ought ’a bin let alone — the talkin’s 
done it,” said the woman in a savage under- 
tone. 

In fact she had her own notions about this 
handsome young person who had intruded 
herself into Sir Jekyl’s sick-room. She knew 
Beatrix, and that this was not she, and she 
did not like or encourage the visitor, and was 
disposed to be sharp, rude, and high with 
her. 

Lady Jane sat down, with her fingers to 
her temple, and the nurse thought she was 
on the point of fainting, and did not care. 

Donica Gwynn entered, scared by a word 
and a look from Tomlinson as he passed her 
on the stair. She and the nurse, leaning 
over Sir Jekyl, whispered for a while, and 
the latter said — 

“ Quite easy — off like a child— all in a 
minute and she took Sir Jekyl’s hand, the 
fingers of which were touching the table, 
and laid it gently beside him on the cov- 
erlet. 

Donica Gwynn began to cry quietly, look- 
ing on the familiar face, thinking of presents 
of ribbons long ago, and school-boy days, 
and many small good-natured remembran* 
ces. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

ESr THE CHAISE. 

Heahing steps approaching, Donica re- 
collected herself, and said, locking the room 
door — 

“ Don’t let them in for a minute.” 

“ Who is she ?” inquired the nurse, follow 
ing Donica’s glance. 

“ Lady Jane Lennox. ’ 

The woman looked at her with awe and a 
little involuntary courtesy, which Lady Jane 
did not see. 


142 


GUY DEVERELL. 


A relation — a— a sort of a niece like of 
the poor master — a’most a daughter like 
allays.” 

"Didn’t know,” whispered the woman, 
with another faint courtesy ; “ hut she’s bet- 
ter out o’ this, don’t you think, ma’am ?” 

" Drink a little wine. Miss Jennie, dear,” 
said Donica, holding the glass to her lips. 
" Won’t you, darling ?” 

She pushed it away gently, and got up, 
and looked at Sir Jekyi in silence. 

" Come away. Miss Jennie, darling, come 
awa3% dear, there’s people at the door. It’s 
no place for you,” said Donica, gently plac- 
ing her hand under her arm, and drawing 
her toward the study door. " Come in here, 
for a minute, with old Donnie.” 

Lady Jane did go out unresisting, hur- 
riedly, and weeping bitterly. 

Old Donica glanced almost guiltily over 
her shoulder; the nurse was hastening to 
the outer door. " Say nothing of us,” she 
whispered, and shut the study door. 

“ Come, Miss Jennie, darling ; do as I tell 
you. They must not know.” 

They crossed the floor ; at her touch the 
false door with its front of fraudulent books 
opened. They were now in a dark passage, 
lighted only by the reflection admitted 
through two or three narrow lights near the 
ceiling, concealed eflectually on the outside. 

The reader will understand that I am here 
describing the architectural arrangements, 
which I myself have seen and examined. At 
the farther end of this room, which is about 
twenty-three feet long, is a niche in which 
stands a sort of cupboard. This swings upon 
hinges, secretly contrived, and you enter 
another chamber of about the same length. 
This room is almost as ill-lighted as the first, 
and was then stored with dusty old furniture, 
piled along both sides, the lumber of fifty 
years ago. From the side of this room a 
door opens upon the gallery, which door has 
been locked for half a century, and I believe 
could hardly be opened from without. 

At the other end of this dismal room is a 
recess, in one side of which is fixed an open 
press, with shelves in it ; and this unsuspected 
press revolves on hinges also, shutting with 
a concealed bolt, and is, in fact, a door ad- 
mitting to the green chamber. 

It is about five years since I explored, 
under the guidance of the architect employed 
to remove this part of the building, this 
mysterious suite of rooms ; and knowing, as 
I fancied, thoroughly the geography of the 
house, I found myself with a shock of incre- 
dulity thus suddenly in the green chamber, 
which I fancied still far distant. Looking to 
my diary, in which I that day entered the 
figures copied from the ground plan of the 
house, I find a little column which explains 
how the distance from front to rear, amount- 
ing to one hundred and seventy-three feet, is 
disposed of. 

Measuring from the western front of the 
house, with which the front of the Window 
dressing-room stands upon a level, that of the 
green chamber receding about twelve feet : — 


ft. in. 

Window dressing-room or hexagon 12 o 

Green chamber 38 o 

Recess 2 0 

First dark room 23 0 

Recess 1 6 

Second dark room 23 0 

Recess 1 6 

Study 25 0 

Wall.... ' 1 0 

Sir Jekyl’s bed-room 27 0 

Ante-room 10 0 

Stair, bow- window of which forms part 

of the eastern front 9 0 


173 0 

I never spoke to anyone who had made 
the same exploration who was not as much 
surprised as I at the unexpected solution of 
a problem which seemed to have proposed 
bringing the front and rear of this ancient 
house, by a “ devilish cantrip slight,” a hun- 
dred feet at least nearer to one another than 
stone mason and foot-rule had ordained. 

The rearward march from the Window 
dressing-room to the foot of the back-stair, 
which ascends by the eastern wall of the 
house, hardly spares you a step of the full 
distance of one hundred and seventy-three 
feet, and thus impresses you with an idea of 
complete separation, which is enhanced by 
the remote ascent and descent. When you 
enter Sir Jekyl’s room, you quite forget that 
its great window looking rearward is in 
reality nineteen feet nearer the front than 
the general line of the rear ; and when you 
stand in that moderately proportioned room, 
his study, which appears to have no door 
but that which opens into his bed-pom, you 
couid not believe without the evidence of 
these figures, that there intervened but two 
rooms of three-and-twenty feet in length 
each, between you and that green chamber, 
whose bow window ranks with the front of 
the house. 

Now Lady Jane sat in that hated room 
once more, a room henceforward loathed and 
feared in memory, as if it had been the abode 
of an evil spirit. Here, gradually it seemed, 
opened upon her the direful vista of the 
future ; and as it happens in tales of magic 
mirrors, when she looked into it her spirit 
sank and she fainted. 

When she recovered consciousness— the 
window open — eau de cologne, sal volatile, 
and all the rest around her, with cloaks 
about her knees, and a shawl over her 
shoulders, she sat and gazed in dark apathy 
on the floor for a time. It was the first 
time in her life she had experienced the 
supernatural panic of death. 

Where was Jekyl now ? All irrevocable ! 
Nothing in this moment’s state changeable 
for ever, and ever, and ever ! 

This gigantic and inflexible terror the 
human brain can hardly apprehend or en- 
dure ; and oh ! when it concerns one for 
whom you would have almost died yourself! 

"Where is he? How can I reach him, 
even with the tip of my finger, to convey 
that one drop of water for which he moans 
now and now, and through all futurity?” 
Vain your wild entreaties. Can the dumb 
I earth answer, or the empty air hear you? 


GUT DEVERELL. 


143 


As the roar of the wild beast dies in solitude, 
as the foam beats in vain the cold blind pre- 
cipice, so everywhere apathy receives your 
frantic adjuration— no sign, no answer. 

Now, when Donica returned and roused 
Lady Jane from her panic, she parsed into a 
frantic state — the wildest self-upbraidings ; 
things that made old Gwynn beat her lean 
hand in despair on the cover of her Bible. 

As soon as this frenzy a little subsided, 
Donica laid her hand firmly on the young 
lady’s arm. 

Come, Lady Jane, you must stop that,” 
she said, sternly. “ What I hear matters 
nothing, but there’s others that must not. 
The house full o’ servants; think, my dar- 
ling, and don’t let yourself doioTi. Come 
away with me to Wardlock — this is no place 
any longer for you — and let your maid 
follow. Come along. Miss Jennie; come, 
darling. Come by the glass door, there is no 
one there, and the chaise waiting outside. 
Come, miss, you must not lower yourself be- 
fore the like o’ them that’s about the house.” 

It was an accident; but this appeal did 
touch her pride. 

“ Well, Donnie, I will. It matters little 
who now knows everything. Wait one mo- 
ment — my face. Give me a towel.” 

And with feminine precaution she hastily 
bathed her eyes and face, looking into the 
glass, and adjusted her hair. 

“ A thick veil, Donnie.” 

Old Gwynn adjusted it, and Lady Jane 
gathered its folds in her hands ; and behind 
this mask, with old Donnie near her, she 
glided down stairs without encountering any- 
one, and entered the carriage, and lay back 
in one of its corners, leaving to Gwynn, who 
followed, to give the driver his directions. 

When they had driven about a mile. Lady 
Jane became strangely excited. 

“ I must see him again — I must see him. 
Stop it. I will. Stop it.” She was tugging 
at the window, which was stiff. “ Stop him, 
Gwynn. Stop him, w’oman, and turn back.” 

“ Don’t, Miss Jennie ; don’t, darling. Ye 
could not, miss. Ye would not face all 
them strangers, ma’am.” 

“ Face them ! What do you mean ? Face 
them ! How dare they ? I despise them — 
I d^y them ! What is their staring and 
whispering to me ? I’ll go back. I’ll return. 
I will^^QQ him again.” 

“Well, Miss Jennie, where’s the good? 
He’s cold by this time.” 

“ I must see him again, Donnie — I musV' 

“ You’ll only see what will frighten you. 
You never saw a corpse, miss.” 

“ Oh ! -Donnie, Donnie, Donnie, don’t — 
you mustn’t. Oh ! Donnie, yes, he’s gone, 
he is--he’s Donnie, and ^/’ve been his 
ruin. I — I — my wicked, wretched vanity. 
He’s gone, lost for ever, and it’s I who’ve 
^done it all. It’s J, Donnie. I’ve destroyed 
him.” 

It was well* that they were driving in a 
lonely place, over a rough way, and at a 
noisy pace, for in sheer distraction Lady Jane 
screamed these wild words of unavailing re- 
morse. 


“ Ah ! my dear,” expostulated Donica 
Gwynn. “ You, indeed ! Put that nonsense 
out of your head. I know all about him, 
poor master Jekyl ; a wild poor fellow ho 
was always. You, indeed ! Ah ! it’s little 
you Imow.” 

Lady Jane was now crying bitterly into 
her handkerchief, held up to her face with 
both hands, and Donica was glad that her 
frantic fancy of returning had passed. 

“ Donnie,” she sobbed at last— “ Donnie, 
you must never leave me. Come with me 
everywhere.” 

“ Better for you, ma’am, stay with Lady 
Alice,” replied old Donnie, with a slight 
shake of her head. 

“ I — I’d rather die. She always hated him, 
and hated me. I tell you, Gwynn, I’d swal- 
low poison first,” said Lady Jane, glaring and 
fiushing fiercely. 

“ Odd ways. Miss Jane, but means kindly. 
We must a-l3ear with one another,” said 
Gwynn. 

“ 1 hate her. She has brought this about, 
the dreadful old woman. Yes, she always 
hated me, and now she’s happy, for she has 
ruined me — quite ruined — for nothing — all 
for nothing — the cruel, dreadful old woman. 
Oh, Gwynn, is it all true ? My God ! is it 
true, or am I mad ?” 

“ Come, my lady, you must not take on 
so,” said old Gwynn. “ ’Tisn’t nothing, arter 
all, to talk so wild on. Doesn’t matter here, 
shut up wi’ me, where no one ’ears ye but 
old Gwynn, but ye must not talk at that gate 
before others, mind ; there’s no one talking 
o’ ye yet — not a soul at Marlowe ; no one 
knows nor guesses nothing, only you be ruled 
by me; you know right well they can’t guess 
nothing ; and you must not be a fool and put 
things in people’s heads, d’^^e see 

Donica Gwynn spoke this peroration with 
a low, stern emphasis, holding the young 
lady’s hand in hers, and looking rather 
grimly into her eyes. 

This lecture of Donica’s seemed to awaken 
her to reflection, and she looked for a while 
into her companion’s face without speaking, 
then lowered her eyes and turned another 
way, and shook old Gwynn’s hand, and 
pressed it, and held it still. 

So they drove on for a good while in 
silence. 

“ Well, then, I don’t care for one night — 
just one— and to-morrow I’ll go, and you 
with me ; we’ll go to-morrow.” 

“ But, my lady mistress, s7ie won’t like that, 
mayhap.” 

“ Then /’ll go alone, that’s all ; for another 
night I’ll not stay under her roof; and I 
think if I were like myself nothing could 
bring me there even for an hour ; but I am 
not. I am quite worn out.” 

Here was another long silence, and before 
it was broken they were among the hedge- 
rows of Wardlock; and the once familiar 
landscape was around her, and the old piers 
by the roadside, and the florid iron gate, and 
the quaint and staid old manor-house rose 
before her like the scenery of a sick dream. 

The journey was over, and in a few 


144 


GUY DEYERELL. 


minutes more she was sitting in her tempo- 
*rary room, leaning ou her hand, and still 
cloaked and bonneted, appearing to look out 
upon the antique garden, with its overgrown 
staandard pear and cherry trees, but, in 
truth, seeing nothing but the sharp face that 
had gazed so awfully into space that day 
from the pillow in Sir Jekyl’s bed-room. 


CHAPTER LXXIY. 

OLD LADY ALICE TALKS WITH GUY. 

As Yarbarri ere, followed by Doocey and 
Guy, entered the hall, they saw Dives cross 
hurriedly to the library and shut the door. 
Yarbarriere followed and knocked. Dives, 
very pallid, opened it, and looked hesitatingly 
in his for a moment, and then said — 

“ Come in, come in, pray, and shut the 
door. You’ll be — you’ll be shocked, sir. 
He’s gone — gone. Poor Jekyl ! It’s a ter- 
rible thing. He’s gone, sir, quite suddenly.” 

His puffy, bilious hand was on Yarbar- 
riere’s arm with a shifting pressure, and 
Yarbarriere made no answer, but looked in 
his face sternly and earnestly. 

“ There’s that poor girl, you know — my 
niece. And — and all so unexpected. It’s 
awful, sir.” 

I’m very much shocked, sir. I had not 
an idea there was any danger. I thought 
him looking very far from actual danger, I’m 
^ery much shocked.’* 

“ And — and things a good deal at sixes 
and sevens. I’m afraid,” said Dives — “ law 
business, you know.” 

“ Perhaps it would be well to detain Mr. 
Pelter, who is, I believe, still here,” sug- 
gested Yarbarriere. 

“Yes, certainly; thank you,” answered 
Dives, eagerly ringing the bell. 

“ And I’ve a chaise at the door,” said Yar- 
barriere, appropriating Guy’s vehicle. 

“ A melancholy parting, sir ; but in circum- 
stances so sad, the only kindness we can 
show is to withdraw the restraint of our 
presence, and to respect the sanctity of 
ajffliction.” 

With which little speech, in the artificial 
style which he had contracted in Prance, he 
made his solemn bow, and, for the last time 
for a good while, shook the Rev. Dives, now 
Sir Dives Marlowe, by the hand. 

When our friend the butler entered, it 
was a comfort to see one countenance on 
which was no trace of flurry. Nil admirari 
— his manner was a philosophy, and the 
convivial undertaker had acquired a grave 
suavity of demeanor and countenance, 
which answered all occasions — impertur- 
bable during the comic stories of an after- 
dinner sederunt— imperturbable now on 
heai^ing the other sort of story, known 
already, which the Rev. Dives Marlowe re- 
counted, and offered, with a respectful in- 
clination, his deferential but very short con- 
dolences. 

Yarbarriere in the meanwhile looked 
through the hall vestibule and from the steps. 


in vain, for his nephew ! He encountered 
Jacques, however, but he had not seen Guy, 
which when Yarbarriere, who w^as in one of 
his deep-seated fusses, heard, he made a few 
sotio wee ejaculation! 

“ Tell that fellow — he’s in the stable-yard, 
I dare say— who drove Mr. Guy from Slow- 
ton, to bring his chaise round this moment ; 
we shall return. If his horses want rest, 
they can have it in town, Marlowe, close by ; 
I shall send a carriage up for you ; and you 
follow with all our things, immediately for 
Slowton.” 

So Jacques departed, and Yarbarriere did 
not care to go up stairs to his room. He did 
not like meeting people ; he did not like the 
chance of hearing Beatrix cry again; he 
wished to be away, and his temper was sav- 
age. He could have struck his nephew^ over 
the head with his cane for detaining him. 

But Guy had been summoned elsewdiere. 
As he walked listlessly before the house, a 
sudden knocking from the great wdndow of 
Lady Mary’s boudoir caused him to raise his 
eyes, and he saw the grim apparition of old 
Lady Alice beckoning to him. As he raised 
his hat, she nodded at him, pale, scowling 
like an evil genius, and beckoned him fiercely 
up with her crooked fingers. 

Another bow, and he entered the house, 
ascended the great stair, and knocked at the 
door of the boudoir. Old Lady Alice’s thin 
hand opened it. She nodded in the same in- 
auspicious way, pointed to a seat, and shut 
the door before she spoke. 

Then, he still standing, she took his hand, 
and said, in tones unexpectedly soft and 
fond — 

“Well, dear, how have you been? It 
seems a long time, although it’s really noth- 
ing. Quite well, I hope ?” 

Guy answered, and inquired according to 
usage ; and the old lady said — 

“ Don’t ask for me ; never ask. I’m never 
well — alw^ays the same, dear, and I hate to 
think of myself. You’ve heard the dreadful 
intelligence — the frightful event. What will 
become of my poor niece? Everything in 
distraction. But Heaven’s will be done. I 
shan’t last long if this sort of thing is to con- 
tinue — quite impossible. There — don’t speak 
to me for a moment. I wanted to tell you, 
you must come to me ; I have a great deal 
to say,” she resumed, having smelt a little at 
her vinaigrette ; “ but not just now. I’m not 
equal to all this. You know how I’ve been 
tried and shattered.” 

Guy w^as too well accustomed to be more 
than politely alarmed by these preparations 
for swooning which Lady Alice occasionally 
saw fit to make ; and in a little while she 
resumed — 

“ Sir Jekyl has been taken from us — he’s 
gone— awfully suddenly. I wish he had had 
a little time for preparation. Ho, dear ! poor 
Jekyl ! Awful ! But we all bow to the will 
of Providence. I fear there has been some 
dreadful mismanagement. I always said 
and knew that Pratt was a quack — positive 
infatuation. But there’s no good in looking 
to secondary causes. Won’t you sit down ?’ 


GUY DEVERELL. 


145 


Guy preferred standing. The hysterical 
ramblings of this selfish old woman did not 
weary or disgust him. Quite the contrary ; 
he would have prolonged them. Was she 
not related to Beatrix, and did not this 
kindred soften, beautify, glorify that shri- 
velled relic of another generation, and make 
him listen to her in a second-hand fascina- 
tion ? 

“ You’re to come to me — d’ye see ? — but 
not immediately. There’s a— there’s some 
one there at present, and I possibly shan’t be 
at home. I must remain with poor dear 
Beatrix a little. She’ll probably go to Dart- 
broke, you know ; yes, tJiat w’ould not be a 
bad plan, and I of course must consider her, 
poor thing. When you grow a little older 
you’ll find you must often sacrifice yourself, 
my dear. I’ve served a long apprenticeship 
to that kind of thing. You must come to 
Wardlock, to my house ; I have a great deal 
to say and tell you, and you can spend a 
week or so there very pleasantly. There 
are some pictures and books, and some 
walks, and everybody looks at the monu- 
ments in the church. There are two of them 
— the Chief Justice of Chester and Hugo de 
Redcliffe— in the ‘ Gentleman’s Magazine.’ 
I’ll show’ it to you wdien you come, and you 
can have the carriage, provided you don’t 
tire the horses ; but you must come. I’m 
your kinswoman — I’m your relation — I’ve 
found it all out— very near — your poor dear 
fatlier.” 

flere Lady Alice dried her eyes, 

“ Well, it’s time enough. You see how 
shattered I am, and so pray don’t urge me to 
talk any more just now. I’ll write to you, 
perhaps, if I find myself able ; and you write 
to me, mind, directly, and address to Ward- 
lock Manor, Wardlock. Write it in your 
pocket-book or you’ll forget it, and^ put ‘ to 
be forwarded ’ on it. Old Donica will see to 
it. She’s very careful I think ; and you pro- 
mise you’ll come ?” 

Guy did promise ; so she said — 

“ Well, dear, till we meet, good-bye ; there, 
God bless you, dear. ” 
i\.nd she drew his . hand toward her, and 
he felt the loose soft leather of her old cheek 
on his as she kissed him, and her dark old 
eyes looked for a moment in his, and then 
she dismissed him with — 

“ There, dear, I can’t talk any more at 
present ; there, farewell. God bless you.” 

Down through that changed, mysterious 
house, through which people now trod softly, 
and looked demure, and spoke little on stairs 
or lobby, and that in whispers, went Guy 
Deverell, and glanced upward, involuntarily, 
as he descended, hoping that he might see 
the beloved shadow of Beatrix on the wall, 
or even the hem of her garment ; but all was 
silent and empty, and in a few seconds more 
he w’as again in the chaise, sitting by old 
Varbarriere, wdio was taciturn and ill-tem- 
pered all the way to Slowton. 

By that evening all the visitors but the 
Rev. Dives Marlowe and. old Lady Alice, 
who remained with Beatrix, had taken flight. 
Even Pelter, after a brief consultation with 
10 


Dives, had fled London wards, and the 
shadow and silence of the chamber of death 
stole out under the door and pervaded all 
the mansion. 

That evening Lady Alice recovered sufll- 
cient strength to write a note to Lady Jane, 
telling her that in consequence of the death 
of Sir Jekyl, it became her duty to remain 
with her niece for the present at Marlowe. 
It superadded many religious reflections 
thereupon ; and offering to her visitor at 
Wardlock the use of that asylum, and the 
society and attendance of Donica Gywnn, it 
concluded with many wholesome wishes for 
the spiritual improvement of Lady Jane 
Lennox. 

Strangely enough, these did not produce 
the soothing and elevating effect that might 
have been expected ; for when Lady Jane 
read the letter she tore it into strips and 
then into small squares, and stamped upon 
the fragments more like her flerce old self 
than she had appeared for the previous four- 
and-twenty hours. 

“ Come, Donica, you write to say I leave 
to-morrow, and that you come with me. 
You said you’d wish it — you must not draw 
back. You would not desert me ?” 

^ I fancy her measures were not quite ^ pre- 
cipitate, for some arrangements were indis- 
pensable before starting for a long sojourn on 
the Continent. Lady Jane remained at 
Wardlock, I believe, for more than a week; 
and Donica, who took matters more peace- 
ably in her dry way, obtained, without a 
row, the permission of Lady Alice to accom- 
pany the forlorn young wife on her journey. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

SOMETirnSTG MORE OF LADY JANE LENNOX. 

“ See, Doctor Pratt — ^how do you do ? 
you’ve been up-stairs. I — I was anxious to 
see you, most anxious ; this shocking, dread- 
ful occurrence,” said the Reverend Dives 
Marlowe, who waylaid the Doctor as he came 
down, and was now very pale, hurrying him 
into the library as he spoke, and shutting the 
door. “ The nurse is gone, you know, and all 
quiet ; and — and the quieter the better, be- 
cause, you know, that poor girl Beatrix my 
niece, she has not a notion there was any 
hurt, a wound, you see, and kno^vs nothing 
in fact. I’ll go over and see that Slowton 
doctor — a — a gentleman. I forget his name. 
There’s no need. I’ve considered it, none in 
the world — of a— a— that miserable ceremony, 
you know^” 

“ I don’t quite follow you, sir,” observed 
Doctor Pratt, looking puzzled. 

“ I mean, I mean a — a coroner — that a” 

“ Oh ! I see, I — I see,” answered Pratt. 

“And I went up, poor fellow; there’s no 
blood, nothing. It may have been apoplexy, 
or any natural cause, for anything I know ” 

“ Internal haemorrhage — an abrasion, pro- 
bably, of one of the great vessels ; and gave 
way, you see, in consequence of his over-ex- 
erting himself.” 


146 


GUY DEVERELL. 


“ Exactly ; a blood-vessel has given way, I 
see,” said the Reverend Dives; “internal 
haemorrhage. I see, exactly ; and I--I know 
that Slowton doctor won’t speak any more 
than you, my dear Pratt, but I may as well 
see him, don’t you think ? And, and there’s 
really no need for all that terrible misery of 
an inquest.” 

“ Well, you know, it’s not for me ; the— the 
family would act naturally.” 

“ The family.! why, look at that poor girl, 
my niece, in hysterics ! I would not stake 
that— that Mt there, I protest, on her preserv- 
ing her wits, if all that misery were to be 
gone through.” 

“ Does Lady Alice know anything of it ?” 

“ Lady Alice Redcliffe ? Quite right, sir — 
very natural inquiry ; not a syllable. She’s, 
you know, not a — a person to conceal things ; 
but she knows and suspects nothing ; and no 
one — that nurse, you told me, thought the 
hm’t was an operation — not a soul suspects.” 

And thus the Reverend Dives agreed with 
himself that the scandal might be avoided ; 
and thus it came to pass that the county 
paper, with a border of black round the par- 
agraph, announced the death of Sir Jekyl 
Marlqwe, Baronet, at the family residence of 
Marlowe Manor, in this county, the immedi- 
ate cause of his death being the rupture of a 
blood-vessel in the lungs, attended by inter- 
nal haemorrhage. By the death of Sir Jekyl 
Marlowe, it further stated, “ a seat in Parlia- 
ment and a deputy lieutenancy for this 
county become vacant.” Then came a grace- 
ful tribute to Sir Jekyl’s value as a county 
gentleman, followed by the usual summary 
from the “ Peerage,” and the fact that, leav- 
ing no male issue, he would be succeeded in 
his title and the bulk of his estates by his 
brother, the Reverend Dives Marlowe. 

So in due course this brother figured as the 
Reverend Sir Dives Marlowe, and became 
proprietor of Marlowe Manor, where, how- 
ever, he does not reside, preferring his sa- 
cred vocation, and the chance of preferment, 
for he has grown, they say, very fond of 
money — to the wordly life, and expensive lia- 
bilities of a country gentleman. 

The Reverend Sir Dives Marlowe, Bart., is 
still unmarried. It is said, however, that he 
was twice pretty near making the harbor of 
matrimony. Lady Bateman, the relict of 
Sir Thomas, was his first object, and matters 
went on satisfactorily until the stage of busi- 
ness was arrived at ; when' unexpectedly the 
lovers on both sides were pulled up and 
thrown on their haunches by a clause in Sir 
Thomas’s will, the spirit of which is con- 
tained in the Latin words, durante mduitate. 
Over this they pondered, recovered their 
senses, shook hands, and in the name of pru- 
dence parted good friends, which they still 
axe. 

The second was the beautiful and accom- 
plished Miss D’Acre. In earlier days the 
Reverend Dives would not have dreamed of 
anything so imprudent. Time, however, 
which notoriously does so much for us, if he 
makes us sages in some particulars, in others, 
makes us spoonies. It is hard to say what 


might have happened if a more eligible bride- 
groom had not turned up in George St. 
George Lighten, of Seymour Park, Esq. So 
that Dives’ love passages have led to noth- 
ing, and of late years he has attempted no 
further explorations in those intricate ways. 

I may as well here mention all I know 
further about Lady Jane Lennox. I cannot 
say exactly how soon she left Wardlock, but 
she did not await Lady Alice’s return, and, I 
think, has never met her since.' 

Sir Jekyl Marlowe’s death was, I suppose, 
the cause of the abandonment of General 
Leonox’s resolution to proceed for a divorce. 
He remained in England for fully four 
months after the Baronet’s death, evidently 
awaiting any proceedings which the family 
might institute, in consequence, against him. 
Upon this point he was fiercely obstinate, 
and his respectable solicitor even fancied him 
“ cracked.” With as \\ii\e fracas as possible, 
a separation was arranged', no diflicult mat- 
ter, for the General was open-handed, and 
the lady impatient only to be gone. It was a 
well-kept secret ; the separation, of course, a 
scandal, but its exact cause enveloped in 
doubt. A desperate quarrel, it was known, 
had followed the General’s return from 
town, but which of the younger gentlemen, 
then guests at Marlowe, was the hero of the 
suspicion, was variously conjectured. The 
evidence of sojourners in the house only 
deepened the mystery. Lady Jane had not 
shown the least liking for anyone there. It 
was thought by most to have a reference to 
those old London stories which had never 
been quite proved. A few even went the 
length of conjecturing that something had 
turned up about the old General, which had 
caused the explosion. 

With an elderly female cousin, Donica 
Gwynn, and her maid, she went abroad, 
where she has continued nearly ever since, 
living rather solitarily, but not an outcast, a 
woman who had been talked about unpleas- 
antly, but never convicted — perhaps quite 
blameless, and therefore by no means ex- 
cluded. 

But a secret sorrow always sat at her 
heart. The last look of that bad man, who, 
she believed, had loved her truly though 
guiltily — summoned as he talked with her — 
irrevocably gone. Where was he now ? How 
was it with him ? 

“ Oh, Jekyl ! Jekyl ! If I could only know 
if we are ever to meet again — forgiven !” 

With fingers clasped together under her 
cloak, and eyes upturned to the stars in the 
beautiful Italian skies, she used, as she 
walked to and fro alone on the terrace of her 
villa, to murmur these agonised invocations. 
The heedless air received them ; the silent 
stars shone cold above, inexorably bright. 
But Time, who dims the pictures, as well as 
heals the wounds of the past, spread his 
shadows and mildews over these ghastly im- 
ages ; and as her unselfish sorrow subsided, 
the sense of her irrevocable forfeiture 
threw its ever -lengthening shadow over her 
mind. 

“ I see how people think— some wonder 


GUY DEVERELL 


147 


at me, some accept me, some flatter me— all 
suspect me.” 

So thought she, with a sense of sometimes 
nearly insupportable loneliness, of resent- 
ment she could not express, and of restless- 
mess— dissatisfied with the present, hopeless 
of the future. It was a life without an 
object, without retrospect — no technical 
compromise, but somehow a fall— a fixll in 
which she bitterly acquiesced, yet which* she 
fiercely resented. 

I don’t know that her bible has yet stood 
her in stead much. She has practised va- 
garies — Tractarian sometimes, and some- 
times Methodist. But there is a yearning, 
I am sure, which will some day lead her to 
hope and serenity. 

It is about a year since I saw the death of 
General Lennox in the “ Times,” an event 
which took place rather suddenly at Vichy. 
I am told that his will contains no allusion 
to Lady Jane. This, however, was to have 
been expected, for the deed of separation 
had amply provided for her ; so now she is 
fi’ee. But I have lately heard from old Lady 
Alice, who keeps her memory and activity 
wonderfully, and maintains a correspon- 
dence with old Donnie Gwynn, that she 
shows no symptom of a disposition to avail 
herself of her liberty. I have lived long 
enough to be surprised at nothing, and 
therefore should not wonder if hereafter she 
should do so. 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

THE LAST. 

Old Lady Alice, who liked writing and 
reading letters, kept up an active correspon- 
dence with her grandson, and that dutiful 
young gentleman received them with a 
punctuality that did him honor. 

Shortly after Lady Jane Lennox’s depar- 
ture from Wardlock, Lady Alice Redcliffe 
and her fair young charge, Beatrix, arrived 
at that discreet old dower house. Old Lady 
Alice, who, when moved, could do a good- 
natured thing, pitying the solitariness of her 
pretty guest, so soon as she thought her 
spirits would bear it, invited first the Miss 
Radlowes, and afterward the Miss Winkle- 
tons— lively young ladies of Beatrix’s time 
of life — who helped to make Wardlock less 
depressing. These hospitalities led to 
“ invites and so the time passed over 
without the tedium that might have been 
looked for, until the period drew near when 
Beatrix was to make the Italian tour she 
had arranged with that respectable and by 
no means disagreeable family, the Fentons 
of Appleby. A rumour reached Guy that 
Drayton was to be one of the party. This 
certainly was not pleasant. He alluded to 
it in his next letter, but Lady Alice chose to 
pass the subject by. 

There has been no step actually taken in 
the threatened lawsuit since the death of 
Sir Jekyl. But there were unpleasant ru- 
mors, and Palter and Crowe were in com- xv.. cx x.xxvxx 

munication with the Rev. Sir Dives Marlowe 1 Alice pronounced herself fatigued, and sat 


on the subject, and he occasionally commu- 
nicated his peevish sense of poor Jekyl’s 
unreasonableness in having died just when 
everything was at sixes and sevens, and the 
unfairness of his having all the trouble and 
so little of the estates. 

Varbarriere, I suppose, was on good terms 
once more with his nephew. There was no 
more talk of Algeria, and they were now 
again in London. That corpulent old gen- 
tleman used to smile with an unctuous 
scorn over the long letters with which Lady 
Alice occasionally favored him. 

“ My faith ! she must suppose I have fine 
leisure, good eyes also, to read all that. I 
wish, Guy, she would distinguish only you 
with her correspondence. I suppose if I 
never answer her, she will cease some time.” 

He had a letter from her while in London, 
on which he discoursed in the above vein. I 
doubt that he had ever read it through. 

Guy received one by the same post, in the 
conclusion of which she said — 

“ Beatrix Marlowe goes in a few days, with 
the Fentons, to Paris, and thence to Italy. 
My house will then be a desert, and I miser- 
ably solitary, unless you and your uncle will 
come to me, as you long since promised, and 
as you well know there is nothing to pre- 
vent. I have written to him, naming Wed- 
nesday week. I shall then have rooms in 
which to place you, and you positively must 
not refuse.” 

Under this hospitable pressure, Varbarriere 
resolved to make a visit to Wardlock — a fly- 
ing visit of a day and night — rather to hear 
what she might have to say than to enjoy 
that excellent lady’s society. From Slowton, 
having there got rid of their railway dust 
and vapor, the gentlemen reached Wardlock 
at the approach of evening. In the hall they 
found old Lady Alice, her thin stooping 
figure cloaked and shawled for a walk, and 
her close bonnet shading her hollow and 
wrinkled face. 

Hospitable in her way, and really glad to 
see her guests, was the crone. She w^ould 
have dismantled and unbonnetted, and called 
for luncheon, and would have led the way 
into the parlor ; but they would not hear of 
such things, having refreshed at Slowton, 
and insisted instead on joining the old lady 
in her walk. 

There is a tall glass door in the back hall, 
which opens on the shorn grass, and through 
it they passed into the circumscribed but 
pretty pleasure-ground, a quadrangle, of 
which the old house, overgrown with jessa- 
mine and woodbine, formed nearly one side ; 
the opposite garden wall, overtopped with 
ancient fruit-trees, another ; and screens of 
tall-stemmed birch and ash, and an under- 
wood of j Liniper and evergreens, the others ; 
beds of brilliant verbena here and there pat- 
terned the green sod ; and the whole had an 
air so quaint and cloister-like, as drew forth 
some honest sentences of admiration from 
old Varbarriere. 

.They strolled among these flowers in this 
pleasant seclusion for a time, until Lady 


148 


GUY DEVERELL. 


down upon a rustic seat, with due ceremony 
of adjustment and assistance. 

“ Sit down by me, Mr. Strangways. Which 
am I to call you, by-the-bye?” 

“ Which you please, madam,” answered 
Varbarriere, with the kind of smile he used 
with her— deferential, with, nevertheless, a 
suspicion of the scornful and amused in it, 
and as he spoke he was seated. 

“As for you grandson,” she continued, 
“ you had better take a walk in the garden— 
you’ll find the door open ;” she pointed with 
her parasol to the old-fashioned fluted door- 
case of Caen stone in the garden wall ; “ and 
I want to talk a little to my friend, M. de 
Varbarriere — Mr. Strangways, as I remem- 
ber him.” And turning to that sage, she 
said — 

“ You got my letter, and have well consid- 
ered it, I trust V” 

“ I never fail to consider well anything 
that falls from Lady Alice Redcliffe.” 

“ Well, sir, I must tell you” 

These were the last words that Guy heard 
as he departed, according to orders, to visit 
her ladyship’s old-fashioned garden. Could 
a young fellow fancy a duller entertainment ? 
Yet to Guy Deverell it Tvas not dull. Every- 
thing he looked on here was beautified and 
saddened by the influence that had been 
there so recently and was gone. 

Those same roses, whose leaves were drop- 
ping to the earth, she had been but a day or 
two ago in their melancholy clusters ; under 
these tall trees she had walked, here on this 
rustic seat she had rested ; and Guy, like a 
reverent worshipper of relics, sat him down 
in the same seat, and, with a strange thrill, 
fancied he saw a pencilled word or two on 
the arm of it. But no, it was nothing, only 
the veining of the wood. Why do ladies use 
their pencils so much less than we men, and 
so seldom (those I mean whose relics are 
precious) trace a line by chance, and throw 
this bread upon the waters, where we poor 
devils pull cheerless against wind and tide ?” 

Here were flowers, too, tied up on tall 
sticks. He wondered whether Beatrix ever 
tended these with her delicate fingers, and 
he rose and looked at the bass-mat with in- 
expressible feeling. 

Then, on a sudden, he stopped by a little 
circle of annuals, overgrown, run into pod, 
all draggled, but in the centre a split stick 
and a piece of bleached paper folded and 
stuck across it. Had she written the name 
of the flower, 'which perhaps she sowed? 
and he plucked the stick from the earth, and 
with tender fingers unfolded the record. In 
a hideous scrawl, evidently the seeds-man’s, 
“ Lupines” sprawled across the weather- 
beaten brown paper. 

He raised his eye with a sigh, and per- 
ceived that the respectable gardener, in a 
blue body-coat -with brass buttons, was at 
hand, and eyed him with a rather stern in- 
quisitiveness. Guy threw the stick down 
carelessly, feeling a little foolish, and walked 
on with more swagger than usual. 

And now he had entered that distant part 
of the garden where dark and stately yew 


hedges, cut here and there in arches, form 
a meditative maze. With the melancholy 
yearning of a lover he gazed on these, no 
doubt the recent haunts of that beautiful 
creature who was his day-dream. With a 
friendly feeling he looked on the dark wall 
of yew on either side ; and from this solemn 
walk he turned into another, and— saw 
Beatrix ! 

More beautiful than ever he thought her 
—her features a little saddened. Each gazed 
on the other, as the old stories truly say in 
such cases, with changing color. Each had 
imagined the other more than a hundred 
miles away. Neither had fancied a meeting 
likely, perhaps possible. The matter hung 
upon the wills of others, who might never 
consent until too late. A few days would 
see Beatrix on her way to Italy with the Pen- 
tons ; and yet here were she and Guy Dev- 
erell, by the sleight of that not ill-natured 
witch, old Lady Alice, face to face. 

“ I don’t know exactly what Guy said. I 
don’t know what she answered. The rhe- 
toric was chiefly his ; but he held her hand 
in his, and from time to time pleaded, not 
quite in vain, for a word from the goddess 
with glowing cheeks and downcast eyes, by 
whose side he walked. Low were those tones, 
and few those words, that answered his im- 
petuous periods ; yet there was a magic * in 
them that made him prouder and more 
blessed than ever his hopes had dared to 
promise. 

Sometimes they stopped, sometimes they 
w^alked slowly on, quite unconscious whether 
they moved or paused, whether the birds 
sang or were silent, of all things but their 
love — in a beautiful dream. 

They had surprised one another, and now 
in turn both were surprised by others ; for 
under one of those airy arches cut so sharply 
in the yew hedge, on a sudden, stood old 
Lady Alice and Monsieur Varbarriere, the 
Enchanter and the Fairy at the close of a 
tale. 

Indulgently, benevolently, the superior pow- 
ers looked on. The young people paused, 
abashed. A sharp little nod from Lady Alice 
told them they were understood. Varbarriere 
came forward, and took the young lady’s 
hand very kindly, and held it very long, and 
a1 the close of his salutation, stooping 
towards her pretty ear, murmured something, 
smiling, which made her drop her eyes again. 

“ I think you both might have waited until 
I had spoken to you ; however, it does not 
signify much. I don’t expect to be of any 
great consequence, or in any great request 
henceforward.” 

Her grandson hastened to plead his excuses, 
which were received, I must allow, with a 
good grace. 

In matters of true love, I have observed, 
where not only Cupid applauds, but Plutus 
smiles. Hymen seldom makes much pother 
about his share in the business. Beatrix did 
not make that tour with the Fentons. They, 
on the contrary, delayed their departure for 
rather more than a month ; and I find Miss 
Fenton and Miss Arabella Fenton among the 


GUY DEVERELL. 


149 


bridesmaids. Drayton did not attend the 
wedding, and oddly enough, was married 
only about three weeks after to Lad}^ Justina 
Flynston, who was not pretty, and had but 
little money ; and they say he has turned out 
rather cross, and hates the French and all 
their products, as “ utter rot.” 

Varbarriere has established two great silk- 
factories, and lives in France, where they say 
gold pours in upon him in streams before 
which the last editor of “ Aladdin” and Mr. 
Kightley of the “ Ancient Mythology” hang 
their heads. His chief “ object” is the eldest 
son of the happy union which we have seen 


: celebrated a few lines back. They would 
* have called the boy Herbert, but Varbarriere 
would not hear of any tning but Guy. They say 
that he is a prodigy of beauty and cleverness. 
Of course, we hear accounts of infant phe- 
nomena with allowance. All I can say is, 
“ If he’s not handsome it’s very odd, and he 
has at least as good a right to be clever as 
most boys going.” And as in these pages we 
have heard something of a father, a son, and 
a grandson, each bearing the same name, I 
think I can’t do better than call this tale after 
them— Guy Deverell. 


THE END. 



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5^4. 



ALL II THE DARK 



^ Nooel. 


BY J. SHERIDAN L E FANU . 

AUTHOR OF 

“GUY DEVERELL,” “UNCLE SILAS,” ETC., ETC. 




NEW YORK: 

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FEANKLIIT SQUARE. 

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TO MY DEAR BROTHER, 


WILLIAM RICHARD LE FANU, 

®l)is Sale is Snscribeb 


WITH GREAT AFFECTION AND ADMIRATION. 



ALL IN THE DARK. 


CHAPTER I. 

GILROYD HALL AND ITS MISTRESS 

Hear the ancient and pretty village of Sax- 
ton, with its gahled side to the road, stands 
an old red-brick house of moderate dimen- 
sions, called Gilroyd Hall, with some tall elms 
of very old date about it j and an ancient 
brick-walled garden, overtopping the road 
with standard fruit trees, that have quite out- 
grown the common stature of such timber, 
and have acquired a sylvan and venerable ap- 
pearance. 

Here dwelt my aunt, an old maid, Miss 
Dinah Perfect by name ; and here my cousin 
William Maubray, the nephew whom she had 
in effect adopted, used to spend his holidays. 

I shall have a good deal to say of her by- 
and-by, though my story chiefly concerns 
William Maubray, who was an orphan, and 
very nearly absolutely dependent upon the 
kindness of his aunt. Her love was true, but 
crossed and ruffled now and then by temper 
and caprice. Not an ill temper was hers, but 
whimsical and despotic, and excited oftenest 
upon the absurdities which she liked letting 
into her active and perverse little head, which 
must have been the proper nidus of all odd 
fancies, they so prospered and multiplied 
there. 

On the whole, Gilroyd Hall and the village 
of Saxton were rather slow quarters for the 
holidays. Besides his aunt, William had but 
one companion under that steep and hospi- 
table roof. This was little Violet Darkwell, 
a child of about eleven years, when he had 
attained to the matured importance of seven- 
teen, and was in the first eleven at Rugby, 
had his cap, and was, in fact, a person with a 
career to look back upon, and who had long 
left childish things behind him. 

This little 'girl %as — in some round-about 
way, which, as a lazy man, I had rather take 
for granted than investigate — a kinswoman ; 
and Miss Dinah Perfect had made her in some 
sort her property, and had her at least eight 
months out of the twelve down at Gilroyd 
Plall. Little Violet was lonely at home — an 
only daughter, with a father working sternly 
at the bar, not every day seen by her, and 
who seemed like a visitor in his own house — 
hunfled, reserved unobtrusive, and a little 
awful. 

To the slim, prettily-formed little girl, with 
the large dark eyes, brown hair, and delicate 
bright tints, the country was delightful — the 


air, the flowers, the liberty ;'and old Aunt 
Dinah, though with a will and a temper, still 
so much kindlier and pleasanter than Miss 
Placey, her governess, in town ; and good old 
Winnie Dobbs was so cosy and good-natured. 

To this little maid, in her pleasant solitude, 
the arrival of William Maubray for the holi- 
days, was an event full of interest and even of 
excitement. , Shy as he was, and much in 
awe ’'of all young lady-kind, she was far too 
young to be in his way. Her sparkling fuss 
and silvery prattle were even pleasant to him. 
There was life and something of comicality in 
her interruptions and unreasonableness. She 
made him visit her kittens and kiss them all 
round, and learn and recite their names ; 
whistle after tea for her bulfinch, dig in her 
garden, mend and even nurse her doll, and 
perform many such tasks, quite beneath his 
dignity as a “ swell” at Rugby, which, however, 
the gentle fellow did very merrily and indus- 
triously for the imperious little woman, with 
scant thanks, but some liking for his guerdon. 

So, in his fancy, she grew to be mixed up 
with the pleasant influences of Gilroyd Hall, 
with the flowers and the birds, with the freaks 
of the little dog Pixie, with the stories he 
read there, and with his kindly welcomes 
and good-byes. 

Sitting, after breakfast, deep in his novel in 
the “ study,” with his white flannel cricket 
trousers on, for he was to play against Winder- 
broke for- the town of Saxton that day, he re- 
ceived a smart tweak by the hair, at the back 
of his head, and, looking round, saw little Vi, 
perched on the rung of his old fashioned chair, 
and dimly recollected having received several 
gentler tweaks in succession, without evincing 
the due attention. 

“ Pert little Vi I what’s all this ?” said the 
stalworth Rugby boy, turning round with a 
little shake of his head, and his sweet smile, 
and leaning on his elbow. The sunny land- 
scape from the window, which was clustered 
round with roses, and a slanting sunbeam that 
just touched her hair, helped to make the 
picture very pretty. 

Great, big, old bear ! you never listen to 
one word I say.” 

“ Don’t you call names, Miss,” said Aunt 
Dinah, who had just glided into the room. 

“ What was little silver-hair saying ? Wliat 
does she want ?” he replied, laughing at the 
child’s indignation, and pursuing the nomen- 
clature of Southey’s pleasant little nursery tale. 
“Golden hair, I must call you, though,” he 
said, looking on her sun-lit head ; “ and not 


8 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


quite golden either ; it is brown, and very- 
pretty brown, too. Who called you Violet T 
He was holding the tip of her pretty chin be- 
tween his fingers, and looking in her large 
deep eyes. Who called you Violet V 

‘‘ How should I know, Willie ?” she replied, 
disengaging her chin with a little toss. 

“ Why, your poor mamma called you Violet. 
I told you so fifty times,” said Aunt" Dinah 
sharply. 

“ You said it was my godfathers and god- 
mothers in my baptism, grannie !” said Miss 
Vi, not really meaning to be pert. 

“ Don’t answer me. Miss — that’s of course, 
your catchism — we’re speaking of your poor 
mamma. ’Twas her mamma who called her 
Violet. What about it ?” 

“ Nothing,” answered William, gently look- 
ing up at his aunt, “ only it is such a pretty 
name and glancing again at the child, “ it 
does so well with her eyes. She is a jolly 
little creature.” 

She has some good features, I suppose, 
like every other child, and you should not try 
to turn her head. Nothing extraordinary. 
There’s vanity enough in the world, and I in- 
sist, William, you don’t try to spoil her.” 

“And what do you want of me, little 
woman ?” asked William. 

“ You come out and sow my lupins for 
mo.” 

“Why, foolish little woman, it isn’t the 
season ; they would not grow.” 

“ Yes, they would though — you say that 
just because you don’t like I you story 1” 

Violet P* exclaimed Aunt Dinah, tapping 
the table with the seal end of her silver pen- 
cil-case. 

“ Well, but he is, grannie, very disobliging. 
Y^ou do nothing now but read your tiresome 
old books, and never do anything I bid you.” 

“ Eeally ! WcM that’s very bad ; I really 
must do better,” said William, getting up with 
a smile ; “ I will sow the lupins.” 

“ What folly ! ” murmured Aunt Dinah, 
grimly. 

“-We’ll get the hoe and trowel. But — ^but 
what’s to be done ? I forgot I’m to play for 
the town to-day ; and I don’t think I have 
time — no, certainly — no time to-day ; for the 
lupins ; ’’ and William shook his head, smiling 
disconsolately. 

“ Then I’ll never ask you to do anything for 
me again as long as I live — never; — ^never — 
never V' she vowed with a tiny stamp. 

“ Yes you shali — you shall, indeed, and I’ll 
do ever so much ; and may she come and look 
at the cricket ?” 

So, leave granted, she did, under old Win- 
nie’s care; and when she returned, and for 
days after, she boasted of Willie’s long score 
and how he caught the ball. 

"When he returned at the end of next “ half” 
ho found old Miss Dinah Perfect with her 
spectacles on, in her comfortable old drawing- 
room, in the cheer of a Christmas fire, with 
her head full of the fancies and terrors of a 
certain American tome, now laid with its face 
downwards upon the table — as she jumped up 


full of glee and affection, to greet him at the 
threshold. 

It was about this period, as ve all remember, 
that hats began to turn and heads with them, 
and tables approved themselves the most in- 
telligent of quadrupeds ; chests of drawers and 
other grave pieces of furniture babbled of 
family secrets, and houses resounded wdth 
those creaks and cracks with which Bacon, 
Shakespeare, and Lord Byron communicated 
their several inspirations in detestable gram- 
mar, to all who please to consult them. 

Aunt Dinah was charmed. Her rapid genius 
loved a short-cut, and here was, by something 
better than a post-ofdce, a direct gossiping in- 
timacy opened between her and the people on 
t’other side of the Styx. 

She ran into this as into her other whimsies, 
might and main, with all her heart and soul. 
She spent money very wildly for her, upon the 
gospels of the new religion, with which the 
transatlantic press was teeming ; and in her 
little green-papered dressing-room was accu- 
mulating a library upon her favourite craze, 
which might have grown to the dimensions of 
Don Quixote’s. 

She had been practising for a year, however, 
and all the minor tables in her house had re- 
peatedly prophesied before she disclosed her 
conversion to her nephew, or to anyone else 
except old Winnie. 

It was no particular business of his if his 
aunt chose to converse with ghosts and angels 
by the mediation of her furniture. So, except 
that he now and then assisted at a seance^ the 
phenomena of which were not very clear to 
him, though perfectly so to his aunt, and ac- 
quiesced in dimly and submissively by good 
old Winnie, things went on in their old course ; 
and so, for some three or four years more, 
during which William Maubray read a great 
deal of all sorts of lore, and acquired an erudite 
smattering of old English authors, dramatists, 
divines, poets, and essayists, and time was 
tracing .fine wrinkles about Aunt Dinah’s kind 
eyes and candid forehead, and adding graceful 
inches to the lithe figure of Violet Darkwell ; 
and the great law of decay and renewal was 
asserting itself everywhere, and snows shroud- 
ing the dead world in winter, and summer 
fragrance, and glow of many hues in the 
gardens and fields succeeding, and births and 
deaths in all the newspapers every morning. 


CHAPTEE' II 

A LETTER. 

The following letter, posted at Saxton, reached 

a rather solitary student in College, 

Cambridge. 

“ Dear William, — You will be sorry — I 
know you will — to hear that poor old auntie 
is not long for this world; I don’t know 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


9 


exactly what is wrong, but something I am 
certain very bad. As for Doctor Drake, I 
have no faith in him, or, indeed, in medicine, 
and don’t mean to trouble him except as a 
friend. I am quite happy in the expectation 
of the coming change, and have had within 
the last week, with the assistance of good old 
Winnie Dobbs some very delightful communi- 
cations^ you know, I dare say, what I mean. 
Bring with you, for you must omec immediately y 
if you care to see poor Aunt Dinah before she 
departs — a basket-bottle of eau de Cologne, 
like the former, you know the kind I mean, 
and buy it at the same place. You need not 
get the cameo ring for Doctor Drake, I shan’t 
make him a present — in fact, we are not now 
on terms. I had heard from many people of 
his incivility and want of temper ; God forgive 
him his ingratitudey however, as I do. The 
basket-bottle holds about a pint, remember. 

I want to tell you exactly what I can do for 
you by my will; I always told you, dear 
William, it was very small; still, as the people 
used to say, ^ every little makes a muckle,’ 
and though little, it will be a help. I cannot 
rest till you^ome ; I know, and am sure you 
love poor old auntie, and •would like to close 
her eyes when the hour comes ; therefore, dear 
Willie, come without delay. Also bring with 
you half a pound of the snuff, the same 
mixture as before ; they make it up at Figgs’s 
— get it there — not in paper, observe ; in a 
canister, and rolled in leady as will be poor 
auntie before long ! Old Dobbs will have your 
room and bed comfortable, as usual ; come by 
the cross coach, at eight o’clock. Tea, and 
anything else you like, will await you. 

Ever your fond old 
“ Auntie. 

P.S. — I send you, to guard against mistakesy 
the exact proportions of the mixture — the snuff 
I mean, of course. I quite forgot a new collar 
for Psyche, plated. Make them engrave ^ Mrs. 
Perfect, Gilroyd Hall,’ upon it. Heaven bless 
you. We are all progressing upward. Amen I 
says your poor old Aunt Dinah, who loves 
you.” 

It was in his quiet college room by candle- 
light that William Maubray read this letter 
from his kind, wild, preposterous, old aunt, 
who had been to him as a mother from his 
early days. 

Aunt Dinah ! was it possible that he was 
about to lose that familiar friend and face, 
the only person on earth who cared about 
him. 

He read the letter over again. A person 
who did not know Aunt Dinah so well as he, 
would have argued from the commissions 
about scents, dog-collars, and snuff, that the 
old lady had no honest intention of dying. 
But he knew that incongruous and volatile 
soul too well to infer reliable consolation from 
those levities. 

“Yes, yes — I shall lose her — she’s gone,” 
said the young man in great distress, laying 
the letter, with the gentleness of despair, upon 


the table, and looking down upon it in pain 
and rumination. 

It would certainly make a change— possibly 
a fatal one in his prospects. A sudden change. 
He read the letter through again, and then, 
with a sinking heart, he opened the window 
and looked out upon the moonlight prospect. 
There are times when in her sweetest moods 
nature seems unkind. Why all this smiling 
light — this cheer and serenity of sky and earth 
— ^when he was stricken only five minutes 
since, perhaps undone, by the message of that 
letter — that sorrow-laden burlesque ? 

This sort of suggestion, in such a moment, 
comes despairingly. The vastness of creation 
— the inflexibility of its laws, and “ What is 
man, and what am I among men, that the 
great Projector of all this should look after 
ephemeral me and my concerns ? The human 
sympathy that I could rely upon, and human 
power — frail and fleeting — ^but still enough— 
is gone, and in this solitary hour, as in the 
coming one of death, experience fails me, 
and I must restall upon that which, according 
to my light is faith, or theory, or chancel” 

With a great sigh, and a heavy heart, Wil- 
liam Maubray turned away from the window, 
and a gush of very true afection flooded his 
heart as he thought of kind old Aunt Dinah. 
He read the letter once more, to make out 
what gleams of comfort he could. 

A handsome fellow was William Maubray 
— ^nearly three-and-twenty by this time — good 
at cricket — great at football : three years ago, 
in the school days, now, so old, tall, and lithe. 
A studious man in his own way — a little pale, 
with broad forehead, good blue eyes, and deli- 
cately formed, but somewhat sad features. 

He looked round his room. He had grown 
very fond of that homely apartment. IDs 
eyes wandered, over his few shelves of beloved 
old books, in all manner of dingy and decayed 
bindings — some of them two centuries and a 
half old, very few of later birth than a hun- 
dred years ago. Delightful companions — 
ready at a moment’s call — ready to open their 
minds, and say their best sayings on any sub- 
ject he might choose — ^resenting no neglect, 
obtruding no counsel, always the same serene, 
cheerful, inalienable friends. 

The idea of parting with them vras insup- 
portable, nearly. But if the break-up came, 
they must part company, and the world be a 
new one for him. The young man spent much 
of that night in dismal reveries and specula- 
tions over his future schemes and chances, all 
of which I spare the reader. 

Good Dr. Sprague, whom he saw next day, 
heard the news with much concern. He had 
known Miss Perfect long ago, and was decor- 
ously sorry on her account. But his real re- 
grets were for the young man. 

“ Well, you go, of course, and see your aunt, 
and I do trust it mayn’t be quite so bad. 
Stay, you know, as long as she wants you, and 
don’t despond. I could wish your reading 
had bebn in a more available direction : but 
rely on it, you’ll find a way to make a start 


10 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


and get into a profession, and with your abili- 
ties, I've no doubt you’ll make your way in 
the world.” 

And the doctor, who was a shrewd as well 
as a kindly little gentleman, having buttoned 
the last button of his gaiter, stood, cap in 
hand, erect, and smiling confidently, he shook 
his hand, with a “ God bless you, Maubray,” 
.and a few minutes later William Maubray, 
with all his commissions stowed away in his 
portmanteau, had commenced his little jour- 
ney to Gilroy d Hall. 

The moon was up, and the little town of 
Saxton very quiet, as Her Majesty’s mail, 
dropping a bag at the post office, whirled 
through it, and pulled up at the further end, 
at the gate of Gilroyd Hall, there to droj) our 
friend, an outside passenger. 

The tall, florid iron gate was already lock- 
ed. William tugged at the bell, and drew 
back a little to reconnoitre the premises. One 
of the old brick gables overhangs the road, 
with only a couple of windows high up, and 
he saw that his summons had put a light in 
motion within them. So he rejoined his hat- 
case, and his portmanteau, awaiting . him on 
its end, in front of the white iron gate that 
looked like lace-work in the moonlight. 

“ Ha I Tom ; glad to see you.” 

“ W elcome, Mr. William, sir ; she a weary in 
to see ye, and scarce thought you’d a come to- 
night.” 

The wicket beside the great gate was now 
open, and William shook hands with the old 
retainer, and glancing anxiously up at the 
stone-faced windows, as it were to read the 
countenance of the old house, he asked, < And 
how is she, Tom, to-night ?” 

“Complainin’ an’ down-hearted a bit for 
7i^r, that is now and again. She cried a good 
bout to-day wi’ old Winnie, in the little par- 
lour.” 

“ She’s up, -then ?” 

“ Ooh, ay ; she’s not a body to lay down 
while she’s a leg to stan’ on. But I do think 
she’s nigh her endin’. Gie’t to me,” this re- 
ferred to the portmanteau. “ I do, poor old 
girl ! and we’s all be sorry. Master Willie.” 

William’s heart sank. 

“ Where is she ?” he inquired. 

“ In the drawing-room, I think.” 

By this time they were standing in the oak- 
pannelled hall, and some one looked over the 
banister from the lobby, upon them. It was 
old Winnie, the light of her candle shining 
pleasantly on her ruddy and kindly face. 

Oh ! Master Willie. Thank God, you’re 
come at last. Glad she’ll be to see you.” 

Old Winnie ambled down the stairs with 
the corner cf her apron to her eye, and shook 
Slim by both hands, and greeted him again 
Very kindly, and even kissed him according 
to the tradition of a score of years. 

“ Is she ver^ ill, Dobbs ?” whispered he, 
looking pale. 

“ Well, not to say verp to look at, you’d 
say, but she’s ’ad a warnin’, her and me sittin’ 
in the bedroom, an’ she’s bin an’ made a new 
will 5 the lawyer’s bin iqi from Saxton. Don’t 


ye say I said nothing, , mind j ^twould only 
fret her, maybe.” 


CHAPTEE III. 

MISS DINAH PERFECT AND HER GUESTS. 

“Is she alone?” he asked, postponing the 
trying moment of seeing her. 

“ No, the Doctor’s with her still — Dr. Drake, 
and Miss Letty, his sister, you remember; 
they’re drinkin’ a cup o’ tea, and some crum- 
pets, and they’ll all be right glad you’re come.” 

“ They ought to go away, don’t you think?” 
mildly suggested William Maubray, a good 
deal shocked. “ However, let me get to my 
room for two or thee minutes, and I shall be 
ready then.” 

They passed the drawing-room door, and 
Miss Letty Drake’s deliberate tones were au- 
dible from within. When he had got to his 
room he asked Dobbs — . 

“What was the warning yoM spoke of?” 

“ Well, dear me ! It was the table ; she and 
me, she makes me sit before her, poor thing, 
and we — well, there is cracks, sure, on and 
off ! And she puts this an’ that together ; 

! and so one way or other — it puzzles my 
poor'head, how — she does make out a deal.” 

William Maubray was an odd, rather soli- 
tary young man, and more given to reading 
and thinking than is usual at his years, and he 
detested these incantations to which his aunt. 
Miss Perfect, had addicted herself, of late 
years, with her usual capricious impetuosity ; 
and he was very uncomfortable on hearing 
that she was occupying her last days with 
these questionable divinations. 

When, in a few minutes, William ran down 
to the drawing-room, and with a chill of an- 
ticipation opened the door of that comfortable 
rather than imposing chamber, the tall slim 
flgure of his aunt rose up from her arm-chair, 
beside the fire, for though it was early autumn, 
the fire was pleasant, and the night-air w^as 
frosty, and with light and wiry tread, stepped 
across the carpet to meet him. Her kind, 
energetic face was pale, and the smile she 
used to greet him with w^as nowhere, and she 
was arrayed from head to foot in deep mourn- 
ing, in which, particularly as she abhorred the 
modern embellishment of crinoline, she 
looked .more slim and tall even than she was. 

The presence of her guests in no wise 
affected the greeting of the aunt and nephew, 
which was very affectionate, and even agitated, 
though silent. 

“ Good Willie, to come so quickly — I knew 
you would.” Miss Perfect never v/cpi, but 
she was very near tears at that moment, and 
there was a little silence, during which she 
held his hands, and then recollecting herself, 
dropt them, and continued more like herself. 

“You did not expect to see me up and here ; 
everything happens oddly with me. Here I 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


11 


am, you see, apparently, I dare say, much as 
usual. By half-past twelve o’clock to-morrow 
night I shall he deadl There, don’t mind 
now— I’ll tell you all by and by. This is my 
friend, Miss Drake, you know her.” 

They shook hands, Miss Drake smiling as 
brisk a smile as in a scene so awful she could 
hazard. 

“ And this, my kind friend Dr. Drake.” 

Wiiliam had occasionally seen Dr. Drake in 
the streets of Saxton, and on the surrounding 
high roads at a distance, but he had never 
before had the honour of an interview. 

The doctor was short and fat, a litle bald, 
and rather dusty, and somehow, William 
thought, resembled a jolly old sexton a good 
deal more than a physician He rose up, with 
his hands in his trowsers pockets, and some 
snuff in the wrinkles of his black cloth waist- 
coat, and bowed, with raised eyebrows and 
pursed mouth, gravely to his plate of crumpet. 

William Maubray looked again on his aunt, 
who was adjusting her black draperies in her 
chair, and then once more at the doctor, whose 
little eye he caught for a second, with a curi- 
ous and even cunning expression in it ; but it 
was averted with a sudden accession of melan- 
choly once more — and William asked — 

‘‘ I — I hope, sir, there is nothing very im- 
minent ?” 

The doctor cleared his voice, uneasily, and 
Aunt Dinah interposed with a nod, a little 
dryly — 

It is not quite in his department.” 

And whose department w it in ? the student 
thought. 

“ I dare say Doctor Drake would tell you 
I’m very well — so perhaps, in a sense, I am ; 
but — Doctor Drake has kindly come here as 
a friend.” 

Doctor Drake bowed, looking steadfastly 
into his cup. 

As a friend, dear Willie, just as you have 
come — ^an old friend.” Miss Perfect spoke 
low, with a little tremor in her voice, and was, 
I believe, near crying, but braced her resolu- 
tion. W illiam drew near gently and sat down 
beside her, and placing her hand upon his, she 
proceeded, 

“ My dear friend Miss Drake, there, does 
not agree with me, I ’am aware ; but Doctor 
Drake who has read more, and perhaps, thought 
more, thinks otherwise — at least, so I’m led 
to suppose.” 

The Doctor coughed a little; Miss Drake 
raised her long chin, and with raised eyebrows, 
looked down on her finger tips which were 
drumming on the table, and my cousin Wil- 
liam glanced from one to the other, not quite 
understanding her drift. 

But,” she continued, “ I’ve apprised them 
already, and I tell you of course ; it ig — you’ll 
remember the name — an intimation from 
Henbane.” 

“ Poison 1” said William, under his breath, 
with a look of pale inquiry at Doctor Drake, 
who at the moment was swallowing his tea 
very fast, and was seized on a sudden with an 
explosion of couching, sneezing, and strang- 


ling which compelled him to jump to his feet, 
and stagger about the room with his face in 
his pocket-handkerchief and his back to the 
tea-table. 

“ When Dr. Henbane,” said my aunt with 
severity, “ I mean a — Doctor i)fake — ^has quite 
done coughing. I’ll go on.” 

There was a little pause. 

“ Confound it,” thought William, who was 
half beside himself, ‘4t’s a very odd dying 
scene 1” 

The doctor blowing his nose, returned very 
red and solemn, and explained, still coughing 
at intervals, that it was a little tea in the 
trachea ; it invariably occured to him when he 
drank tea in the evening ; he -fnust give it up ; 
“ you know, Letty.” 

Miss Drake did not deign to assist him. 

“ She does not seem to know so much about 
it as you do,” observed Aunt Dinah with an 
irony. 

Owing to my not thinking so much,” re- 
plied Miss Letty, sarcastically. 

Henbane !” murmured William again, in 
a puzzled horror. . 

“ H’m ! — ^yes ! — Henbane ? you seem to have 
forgotten; one of those — one of the spirits 
who have attached themselves to me,” and 
Aunt Dinah shot a quick glance at the doctor 
who though looking again at his crumpet, 
seemed to cower awfully under it. 

“ Oh — ay — Henbane I” exclaimed William 
in a tone of familarity, which indicated any- 
thing' but respect for that supernatural ac- 
quaintance. “ Henbane, to be surer 

And he looked on his aunt with a half 
amused recognition, which' seemed to say, 
“ Well — and what about that humbug ?” 

But Aunt Dinah said decisively — 

“ So much for the present ; you shall hear 
more — every thing by-and-bye.” 

And there followed a silence. 

“ Did you remember the snuff, dear Wil- 
liam ?” inquired the doomed lady, with rather 
an abrupt transition. 

“ Certainly ; shall I fetch it ?” said William, 
half rising. 

Miss Perfect nodded, and away he went, 
somehow vastly relieved, and with his bed- 
room candle in his hand, mounted the oak 
stairs, which were broad and handsome in pro- 
portion to the other dimensions of that snug 
old house. 


o- 


CHAPTEE IV. 

.VIOLET DARKWELL. 

At the head of the stairs, the topmost step of 
which had been their bench, there rose to him 
two female figures. He did not instantly recog- 
nise them, for one candle only was burning, 
and it was on the little table nearly behind 
them. One was old Winnie Dobbs, the other 
Violet Darkwell ; she stood up slight and girl- 


12 


ALL IN THE DAKK. 


ish still, but looking taller that he had expect- 
ed, with an old faded silk quilted shawl of 
Aunt Dinah’s about her shoulders, and hood- 
wise over her head, for the night was frosty. 

“Ha! Vi — little Vi, I was going to say; 
dear me ! how you have grown I So glad to 
see you.” 

He had a girl’s slim hand in his, and was 
speaking as he felt, very kindly. 

“We’ve been waiting here, Winnie and I, 
to hear what you thought of dear grannie,” — 
(grannie was merely a pet name in this case, 
defining no relationship) — “ and what do you 
think, William ?” 

“I really don’t understand it'” he answered. 

I — I hope it’s, all nonsense ; I really think 
so. She says she is very well ; and the doc- 
tor — Drake, you know — I really think he was 
laughing, and one thing I’m quite certain of— 
it is connected in her mind with _ that foolish 
spirit-rapping.” 

“ And you don’t believe in it ?’*■ inquired the 
young lady. 

“ All bosh and nonsence. Not a bit of it,” 
he replied. 

“ Oh, William, I am so delighted to hear 
you say so 1” she exclaimed, much relieved by 
the promulgation of so valuable an opinion. 
“And you’re quite right, I know^ about gran- 
nie. It isj really — is not it, Winnie ? — all 
about that awful spirit-rapping. Grannie never 
speaks of it to me; I believe she’s afraid of 
frightening me ; but old Winnie, here— you 
must not tell of her — she tells me all about 
it — everything ; and I am so afraid of it ; and 
it, is entirely that. Granny thinks she has got 
a message! fancy! How awful I And Winnie 
does not know what the words were ; for gran- 
nie writes down the letters with a pencil, and 
tells her only what she thinks fit ; and I am 
so delighted — ^you can’t think.” 

“ You good little Vi, I’m so glad to see you !”" 
She laughed a low little laugh — ^the ^first for 
several days — as he shook her hand again; 
and he said — 

“ Winnie, do, like a dear old thing, open 
my portmanteau — here’s the key — and fetch 
me a canister you’ll see at the top, with a 
great paper label, blue and red, on it.” 

Away went Winnie Dobbs, with his key and 
candle,' and he said to the pretty girl who 
stood leaning lightly against the banister — 

. “ My old friend, Vi ! When I went into the 
drawing-room just now, I looked all round for 
you, and 'could not think what had become of 
you, and was really afraid you had gone away 
to London. I don’t think I should ever care 
to come to Gilroyd Hall again ; I should pre- 
fer seeing my aunt anywhere else — it would 
not be like itself if you were gone.” 

“ So you really missed me, William?” She 
laughed. 

“ I should think so. And another thing — 
you are not to call me William. Why don’t 
you call me Willie, or old bear, as you used to 
do ? If you change old names. I’ll begin and 
call you Miss Darkwell.” 

“ How awful !” 

“ Indeed I will, and be as formal as you 


please, and treat you like a young lady, and 
you’ll never be ‘ wicked little Vi ’ any more.” 

She was laughing as she leaned back, and 
could see her small teeth, and he bethought 
him that she was looking really , quite lovely ; 
so with two fingers he picked up her little 
hand again, as it lay at her side, and he said — 

“ And we are always to be good friends you 
know — great friends ; and although you’ve no 
more dolls to mend. I’ll still be of use. I’m 
going to the bar, and I’ll manage all your 
lawsuits, if you let me ; and when you are 
going to be married. I’ll di’aw your settle- 
ments, and you are to have me always 
for your counsel.” 

She was still smiling, but said nothing, and 
looked wonderfully pretty, with the old grey 
silk hood wrapped all about her, so that sober 
old William was on the very point of kissing 
the slender hand he held in his. But a new 
feeling of shyness prevented, and he only 
shook her hand gently once more, and laid it 
“by her side again, as you replace some precious 
thing you have been admiring where you 
found it. 

‘^nd you really think we may be happy 
about dear old grannie again ?” she said. 

The sound of Winnie’s footsteps was heard 
approaching. 

“Yes; certainly. I’ll try to get a word 
with Doctor Drake. I can’t imagine anything 
serious. Won’t you come to the drawing- 
room now ?” 

“No ; not to-night ; not while those people 
are there. I was so wretched about dear 
grannie, I could not bear to go in at first ; 
and now it would be odd, I think, going down 
when tea is over.” 

“ As if I had brought you down from the 
nursery, as I often did, Vi, on my back. Well, 
old Winnie, have you got it ?” 

“ Here, I think, Master William,” answered 
Winnie. 

“ Yes ; all right. So you won’t come, Vi ?” 

“No.” 

“ Quite made up your mind ?” 

“ Quite, Willie.” 

“ Thats right — Willie^'* said he with a 
smile, and a nod of approbation. “ I should 
so like to stay here a little longer, as you 
won’t come, and here all the news, and tell 
you mine. But Aunt Dinah would lose 
patience — I’m afraid she hasV 

“ Yes, indeed ; you had better go. Good 
night, bear.” 

“ Good night, wicked little Vi. Bemember 
we meet at breakfast — shan’t we ?” 

“ Oh, certainly. Good night.” 

“ Good night.” * 

And so the gray silk hood vanished, with a 
smile,’ prettily, round the corner, and William 
Maubray descended with his snuff to the 
drawing-room, with the pretty oval portrait 
of that young face still hovering before him 
in the air. 

Miss Letty Drake, whose countenance was 
unpleasantly long in proportion to her height, 
and pallid, and her small figure bony, and 
who was dressed on this sad occasion in her 


ALL IN THE DALE. 


13 


r 


silk “ half- mourning/^ a sad and, it was 
thought, a dyed garment, which had done 
duty during many periods of affliction, as 
William entered the room, was concluding a 
sentence with a low pointed asperity, thus — 
“ which seems to me hardly compatible with 
Saint Paul’s description of Christian charity,” 
and a short silence followed these words. 

I was going to ring the bell William,” 
said the doomed lady of the house. One 
would have thought you were making that 
snuff. Let me see it — ^h’m. See, get off this 
cover. Ho ! what is this ? A lead wrapper!” 

“You said, Aunt Dinah, you wished it.” 

“ Did I ? Well, no matter. Get it open. 
Thanks. Yes ; that’s it. Yes ; very good. 
You take snuff, doctor, don’t you ?” 

“A yes^ certainly, nothing like it, I do 
believe — where a man is obliged to work his 
head — aw haw — a stimulus and a sedative.” 

The doctor, it was averred, “ worked ” his 
occasionally with brandy and water, and not 
a great deal of otherwise. 

“No, many thanks; don’t care for per- 
fumes ; high toast is my snuff.” And Doctor 
Drake illustrated the fact by a huge pinch, 
which shed another brown shower over the 
wrinkles of his waistcoat. 

“Letty, dear,” said Aunt Dinah, turning 
suddenly to Miss Drake, “ we won’t quarrel ; 
we can’t agree, but I won’t quarrel.” 

“ Well, dear, I’m glad to hear you say so. 
I’m sure, for my part, I never quarrel. ^ Be 
ye angry, and let not the sun go down on 
your wrath.’” ' 


o 


CHAPTER Y. 

AUNT DINAH IS IN THE HORRORS, AND DOCTOR 
DRAKE PUTS HIS NIGHT-CAP IN HIS POCKET. 

“ I WISH to say good-by to you very kindly,” 
said Aunt Dinah, quite sadly and ‘gently, and 
somehow not like herself, “ and — I’ve tried to 
keep up ; I know it must happen, and I’m 

sure it is for the best, but ” 

“ I hope and expect, my dear Dinah,” inter- 
posed Miss Letty, sharply — she was pulling 
on her worsted “ wrists” — “ to see you in the 
enjoyment of many years of your accustomed 
health and spirits, and I have no doubt hu- 
manly speaking, that I shall.” 

Miss Letty was quiet and peremptory, but 
also a little excited. And the doctor for want 
of something better to do, cleared his voice, 
in a grand abstraction, and wound up his 
watch slowly, and held it to his ear, nobody 
knew exactly why. 

“ You won’t believe me, but I know it, and 
so will you — too late; to-morrow night at 
twelve o’clock I shall be dead. Pve tried to 
keep up — I have ; I’ve tried it ; but oh I Ho, 
ho, hoo, ooh,” and poor Aunt Dinah quite 
broke down, and cried and hooted hysteri- 
cally. 


Dr. Drake had now before h^^ an intelli- 
gible case, and took the command according- 
ly with desision. Up went the window ; cold 
water was there, and spirit of hartshorn. 
And when she had a little recovered, the 
Doctor, who was a good-natured fellow said — 

“ Now Miss Perfect, ma’am, it won’t do, I 
tell you ; it’s only right ; you may want some 
assistance; and if as an old friend, you’ll 
allow me to return and remain here for the 
night, a sofa, or an arm-chair, anything. I’ll 
be most happy, I do assure you. 

But Aunt Dinah, with many thanks, said, 
“ No,” peremptorily, and wilful man or wo- 
man, who will contend with ? 

So, like the awful banquet in Macbcjth, Miss 
Dinah Perfect’s tea-party broke down and up, 
and the guests, somewhat scared, got in to 
their walking wrappers, rather silently, and 
their entertainer remained behind unstrung 
and ihelancholic. 

But William Maubray, who came down to 
assist in the rummage for cloaks and umbrel- 
las, asked leave, in his blunt modest way, to 
accompany Miss Letty and her brother, the 
doctor, to Saxton. 

Now there seemed something real and grisly 
in Aunt Dinah’s terror, which a little infected 
William Maubray ; and the little party march- 
ed in silence along the frost-hardened road, 
white in moonlight, with the bare switch-like 
shadows of the trees across it, on their way to 
the pretty old town of Saxton. 

At last the doctor said— • 

“ She won’t miss you, do you think ?” 

“ She told me she’d like to be quiet for half 
an hour and I should be so much obliged if 
you could tell me, whether you really, that is, 
still think that she ought to have a medical 
man in attendance to-night.” 

“ Why, you know what hysteria is. “ Well, 
she is in a highly hysterical state. She’s a 
woman who resists ; it would be safer, you 
see, if she gave way and cried a bit now and 
then, when nature prompts, but she won’t, 
except under awful high pressure, and then 
it might be serious ; those things sometimes 
run off into fits.” 

And so the doctor lectured William upon 
his aunt’s nerves, until they had arrived at 
the door of his snug house in the High Street. 

Here they shook hands ; but William Mau- 
bray, who was unhappy about Aunt Dinah, 
after Miss Letty had mounted to her chamber, 
very urgently entreated the doctor to return, 
and see how it might end. 

With a bottle of valerian, his slippers, and 
a night-cap in his packet. Docter Drake did 
consent to return, and he smuggled into Gil^ 
ro}'d Hall. 

“ I don’t know what to make of that spirit- 
rapping quite,” said the doctor, as side by side 
they approached the Hall. “ There’s a quan- 
tity of books published on it — very unac- 
countable if half what they say is true. I 
suppose you’ve read it all. You read a lot. 
Miss Perfect tells me.” 

“ I’ve read very little about it, except in 
the papers. She fancies she has had a mes- 


o 


14 


ALL IN THE DAHK. 


gage, telling her she is to die sometime to- 
morrow. I can’t believe there’s really any- 
thing more than self-deceptioen • but is there 
not a danger ?” 

“,How ?” asked the doctor. 

“ I mean, being so nervous as you suppose, 
and quite convinced that she is to die at a 
particular time ; might not her own mind — 
you know Lord Lyttelton died in consequence 
of such a persuasion.” 

William paused. Doctor Drake lowered, be- 
tween his fingers, the cigar he was smoking, 
and they came to a halt, with a little wheel to 
the left, and the doctor, with his head aside, 
blowing the smoke up in a thin stream, looked 
with abi thoughtful scrutiny up at the clear 
bright moon ; perhaps a not unsuitable source 
of inspiration upon their crazy theme. 

“ I forget which Lord Lyttelton that was,” 
said the doctor, wisely. “ Isn’t it Lyttleton^ 
you say ? But the thing is quite possible. 
There’s a spirit you know she’s always talking 
about. She calls him Henbane. Egad, sir, I 
was develish near laughing at tea when she 
named him so suddenly that time ; I’d have 
been up a tree if I had you know. You did^ 
not see what she was at, but I did. That 
Henbane’s her gospel, egad, and she thinks 
it was he who told her — d’ye see ? Come along. 
She’ll be wondering where you are.” 

So on they went towards Gilroyd Hall, 
whose outline, black and sharp, against the 
lumnious sky, was r*:lieved at one point by 
the dull glow of candle-light through the red 
curtains, of what William Maubray knew to be 
Aunt Dinah’s bedchamber window. 

“ She is in her room, I think — there’s light 
in her window,” said William. The doctor 
nodded, chucking his cigar stump far away, 
for he knew Aunt Dinah’s antipathy to tobac- 
co, and they were now on the door-step. He 
was thinking, if the case were to end tragic- 
ally, what a capital paper he would make of 
it, beside the interesting letter he would send 
to the editor of the Spatula. 

“ Winnie’s bin a callin’ over the stairs for 
you, Master Willie. Misses wants ye to her 
room,” said Tom, who awaited them on the 
door-steps. 

“ I’ll sit by the fire in the study,” whisper- 
ed the doctor. I don’t mind sitting up a 
night now and then. Give me a cloak or 
something. There’s a sofa, and I’ll do very 
well.” 

The principle of life was strong in Aunt 
Dinah, and three hours later that active-mind- 
ed lady was lying wide awake on her bed, 
with a variety of topics, not all consisting 
with the assumed shortness of her hours, 
drifting in succession through her head. The 
last idea that struck her was the most con- 
gruous, and up she jumped, made a wild toilet, 
whose sole principle was warmth, tied a faded 
silk handkerchief over her nightcap, across 
her ears, and with her long white flannel 
dressing gown about her, and a taper in her 
hand, issued, like the apparition of the Bleed- 
ing Nun, upon the gallery, and tapped sharply 
on William Maubray ’s door. 


“ William, William !” she called as she tap- ; 
ped, and from within William answered ’ 
drowsily to the summons. 

“ Wait a moment,” said the lady, and > 

I 

In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, [ 

And stood at William’s feet.” 

We must have a seance j my dear boy ; ’I’m, 
going to wake up old Winnie. It certainly^ | 
has a connexion with your arrival ; but any- 
thing like the cracking, knocking, and creak- j 
ing of everything j I’ve never yet heard. I have 
no doubt — so sure as you sit there” — (William 
was sitting up in his bed with glazed eyes, and 
senses only half awake) — “ that your poor 
dear mother is here to-night. We’re sure of 
Henbane ; and — just get your clothes on — 
I’m going for Winnie, and we meet in the 
study, mind, in five minutes.” 

And Aunt Dinah, having lighted William’s 
candle, disappeared, leaving him with a fund , 
of cheerful ideas to make his yawning and be- > 
wildered toilet. • 


-o- 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN WHICH THE WITCHES ASSEMBLE, ^ 

A FEW minutes later she glided into the study, ^ 
overthrowing a small table, round which her 
little seances were accustomed to bo made, and^ 
which the doctor had providently placed^ 
against the door. ] 

Aunt Dinah held under her arm the 8vo 
‘‘ Revelations of Elihu Bung, the Pennsylva- ' 
nian Prophet,” a contribution to spiritual'^ 
science which distanced all contemporary com- ^ 
petition ; and the chapter which shows that a 
table of a light, smart build, after having ^ 
served a proper apprenticeship to “ rapping,” 1 
may acquire the faculty of locomotion ancV/ 
self-direction, flashed on her recollection ask 
she recognised prostrate at her feet, in th^ 
glimmer of her taper, the altar of their mys^ | 
teries, which she had with reverent^hands her- 
self placed that evening in its wonted 'corner, 
at the opposite end of the room. 

Such a manifestation was new to her. She 
looked on it, a little paler than usual, and 
bethought her of that other terrible chajpter 
in which Elihu Bung avers shat spirits, grown 
intimate by a long familiarity, will, in a pro- 
perly regulated twilight — and her light at the 
moment was no more — made themselves visi- 
ble to those whom they habitually favour 
with their advices. 

Therefore she was strangely thrilled at sight 
of the indistinct and shadowy doctor, who 
awakened by the noise, rose at the opposite 
end of the room from the sofa on which he 
had fallen asleep. Tall and thin, and quite 
unrecognisable by him, was the white figure 
at the door, with a taper elevated above its 
head, and which whispered with a horrid dis- 


■>1 

J 

' i 


ALL IK THE DARK 


15 


tinctness the word “Henbane!” — the first 
heard on his awakening, the last in his fancy 
as he dropped asleep, and which sounded to 
him like the apparition'sconsiderate announce- 
ment of its name on entering the room ; he 
echoed “ Henbane ” in a suppressed diapason, 
and Aunt Dinah, with an awful ejaculation, 
repeated the word from the distance, and sank 
into a chair. 

“ Henbane 1 ” cried the doctor briskly, hav- 
ing no other exclamation ready, and reassured 
by these evidences of timidity in the spectre, 
he exclaimed, “Hey, by Jove! what the 
plague!” and for some seconds he did not 
know distinctly where he was. 

“ Merciful goodness ! Doctor Drake, why 
will you try to frighten people in this manner ? 
Do you want to hill me, sir ? ” 

“I? Ho! Ha, ha! ma’am,” replied the 
learned gentleman, incoherently. 

“What are you doing liere^ sir? I think 
you’re mad I ” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, fiercely. 

The doctor cleared his voice, and addressed 
himself to explain, and before his first period 
was reached, William and old Winnie, wofully 
sleepy, had arrived. 

Luckily the person who approaches such 
oracles as “ Henbane,” it is well known, must 
do so with a peaceful and charitable soul. So 
Miss Perfect was appeasable, and apologies 
being made and accepted, she thus opened 
, her mind to the doctor — 

“ I don’t complain. Doctor Drake — William, 
ight the candles over the chimney-piece — 
although you terrified me a great deal more 
than in my circumstances I ought to have 
been capable of.” 

I* The candles were now lighted, and shone 
chearfully upon the short, fat fijure, and rud- 
dy, roguish face of Doctor Drake, and as he 
was taking one of his huge pinches of snuff, 
she added — 

“ And I won’t deny that I did fancy for a 
moment you might be a spirit-form, and pos- 
sibly that of Henbane.” 

William Maubray, who was looking at the 
doctor, as Miss Perfect reverently lowered her 
• voice at these words, exploded into something 
so like a laugh, though he tried to pass it off 
for a cough, that his aunt looked sharply on 
him in silence for a moment. 

“ And I’m blowed but I was a bit frightened 
too, ma’am, when I saw you at the door there,” 
said the doctor. 

“Well, let us try,” said Miss Perfect. 

Come, we are four ; let us try who are pre- 
isent — what spirits, and seek to communicate. 
You don’t object Dr. Drake?” 

“ I ? Ho ! oh ! dear no. I should jiot desire 
better — aw-haw — instruction^ ma^^MJ” answer- 
ed the doctor. 

I am afraid he was near saying “fun.” 

“ Winnie, place the table as usual. There, 
yes. Now let us arrange ourselves.’^ 

The doctor sat down, still blinking, and 
with a great yawn inquired — 

“Do we Avaw — haw — wa — w — want any 
particular information 

“ Let us first try whether they will commu- 


nicate. We always want information,” said 
Miss Perfect. “ William, sit you there ; Win- 
nie, there. I’ll take pencil and paper and re- 
cord.” 

All being prepared, fingers extended, com- 
pany intent. Aunt Dinah propounded the first 
question — 

“ Is there any spirit present ?” 

There was a long wait and no rejoinder. i 

“ Didn’t you hear something?” inquired the 
doctor. 

William shook his head. 

“ I thought I felt it,” persisted the doctor. 
“ What do you say, ma’am ?” addressing him- 
self to W innie, who looked, after her wont, 
toAvards her mistress for help. 

“ Did you feel anything?” demanded^Miss 
Perfect sharply. 

“Nothing but a little wind like on the back 
of my head, as I think,” replied Winnie, 
driven to the wall. 

“Wind on her head! That’s odd,” said 
Miss Perfect, looking in the air, as if she 
possessed the porcine gift of ‘seeing it, “ very 
odd 1” she continued, with her small hand ex- 
panded in the air. “ Not a breath stirring, 
and Winnie has no more imagination than 
that sofa pilloAV. You never fancy anything, 
Winnie?” 

“ Do I, ma’am ?” inquired Winnie Dobbs, 
mildly. 

“Well, do you, I say? No, you don’t; of 
course you don’t. You knoAV you don’t as 
well as I do.” 

“ Well, I did think so, sure, ma’am,” an- 
swered Winnie. 

“ Pity Ave can’t get an answer,” remarked 
the doctor, and at the same moment William 
felt the pressure of a large foot in a slipper — 
under the table. It had the air of an inten- 
tentional squeeze, and he looked innocently 
at the doctor, who was, however, so entirely 
unconscious, that it must have been an acci- 
dent. 

“ I say it is a pity, Mr. Maubray, isn’t it ? 
for Ave might hear something that might inter- 
est Miss Perfect very much, possibly, I say?” 

“ I don’t know ; I can’t say, I’ve ncA^er 
heard anything,” answered William, Avho 
would have liked to kick the table up to the 
ceiling and go off to his bed. 

“ Suppose, ma’am, Ave try again,” inquired 
Dr. Drake. 

“ Certainly,” replied Aunt Dinah, “ we must 
have patience.” 

“ Will you ask, ma’am, please, again if 
there’s a spirit in the room ?” solicited the 
doctor; and the question being put, there 
came an upAvard heave of the table. 

“ Well?” exclaimed the doctor, looking at 
Winnie, “ did you feel that?” 

“ Tilt, ma’am,” said Winnie, Avho knew the 
intelligence would be welcome. 

“ What do you say ?” inquired Miss Perfect 
triumphanily of. William. 

Doctor Drake Avas changing his position 
just at the moment, and I perceived no other 
motion in the table — nothing but the little 
push he gave it,” answered William. 


16 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


“ Oh^ pooh I yes, of course, there was that,” 
said the doctor a little crossly ; but I meant 
a sort of a start — a crack like, in the leaf of 
the table.” 

I felt nothing of tl»G kind,” said William 
Maubray. 

The doctor looking disgusted, and leaning 
back, took a large pinch of snuff. There was 
a silence. Aunt Dinah’s lips were closed with 
a thoughtful frown as she looked down upon 
the top of the table, 

It is very strange. I certainly never wit- 
nessed in this house more unequivocal evi- 
dences — preliminary evidences, of course — of 
spiritual activity.” 

“I think, ma’am, I have read,” said the 
doctor, with his hands in his pockets, “I 
think^ somewhere, that if any one of the mani- 
pulators happens to be an unbeliever ” 

^^An unbeliever in the manifestations, of 
course the spirits won’t communicate,” inter- 
posed Miss Perfect, volubly laying down the 
law. “ Winnie is a believer as much as I. 
We all know that. Nephew, how are you? 
Do you believe ? You shake your head. Speak 
out. Yes or no?” 

Well, I don’t,” said he, a little sheepishly. 

“You don’t? And, not believing, you sit 
here with your fingers on the table, keeping 
Doctor Drake out of his — his ” 

She could not say bed, and the doctor re- 
lieved her by saying, “ Oh, as to me, ma’am, 
I’m only too happy j but you know it’s a pity, 
all the same.” 

“ Very true, doctor. Much obliged. We 
shall set it to rights, My dear William, you 
might have told us at starting ; but we’ll 
commence again. Sit by the fire, William, 
and I trust in a little time you may be con- 
vinced.” 


CHAPTEE VII 

THE FAMILIAR SPEAKS. 

So the excommunicated William, with his 
feet upon the fender, leaning upon his elbow 
in the great chair, made himself comfortable 
by the fire, and heard his aunt propound the 
questions, and the answers by the previously 
appoi nted manifestations, duly noted down. 

“ Is there a spirit present?” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“Are there more than one ?”" 

“ No.’ 

“ Is it a male or female spirit?” 

No answer. 

“ Is it Henbane ?” 

“Yes” (emphatically). 

William was surprised. All was now going 
smoothly, and he could not for a moment sus- 
pect a gentleman of Dr. Drake’s respectability 
of participating in a trick. But there was a 
monotony in the matter of a quieting kind, 
and William grew too drowsy to keep his eyes 
long open. 


“ Did you give Miss Dinah Perfect a mes- 
sage on Monday last ?” 

. “ Yes.” 

“ Did it concern her death ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is her death to take place at the time 
then appointed ?” 

Here the table made a positive jump, and 
in spite of a grasp made at it by the doctor’s 
fingers, it fell flat on the floor, and it must 
have been a very violent impulse, for Dr. 
Drake’s slipper was off, and he, very red, no 
doubt from his effort to prevent the wilful fall 
of the table. 

“ Very extraordinary I” exclaimed he, stand- 
ing up 

“ Most wonderful !” said my aunt. 

Good old fat Winnie sat with her fingers 
raised in the air, looking at the postrate table 
with placid astonishment. 

“That’s atilt,” said the doctor, “that means 
no — a very emphatic tilt.” 

“ I think it was a jump^' said my aunt, 
sadly. 

“ No, ma’am, no — a tilt, a tilt. I’ll take my 
oath. Besides, v^jump has no meaning,” urged 
he with energy. 

“ Pardon me ; when a question is received 
with marked impatience a jump is no unfre- 
quent consequence.” 

“ Oh, oh 1” groaned the doctor, reflectively. 
“ Then it counts for nothing ?” 

“ Nothing,” said Miss Perfect in alow tone. 
“ Winnie, get the table up again.” 

“ Suppose, ma’am, to avoid mistakes,” said 
the doctor, after reflection, “ suppose we put 
it upon it to express itself in language. Just 
ask it what about Miss Dinah Perfect’s 
death.” ^ 

“ I’ve no objection,” said Miss Perfect ; and 
in the terms prescribed by Dr. Drake the mo- 
mentous question was put. 

Hereupon the spelling commenced — 

A-D-J-O-U-R-N-E-D.” 

“ Postponed, put ofi’, ma’am I” said the 
doctor, expounding eagerly. 

“ I know ; good heaven I I understand,” 
answered Aunt Dinah, faintly. 

“ Give her some water. Ilere^ ma’am,” said 
he, presenting a glass of water at her pale lips. 
She sipped a little. 

“Now we’ll ask, ma’am, please, for how 
long ?” suggested the doctor. 

And this question likewise having been 
propounded, the table proceeded once more to 
spell — 

“ S-I-N-E D-I-E.” 

“ It, ends with dze,” said my poor aunt, 
faintlyl 

“ Bine dkj ma’am. It means indefinitely, 
ma’am; your death is postponed without a 
day named — for ever, ma’am ! It’s all over ; 
and I’m very happy it has ended so. What a 
marvellous thing, ma’am — ^give her some more 
water, please — those manifestations are. I 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


37 


hope, ma’am, your mind is quite relieved — 
perfectly, ma’am.” 

Miss Dinah Perfect was taken with a violent 
shivering, in which her very teeth chattered. 
Then she cried, and then she laughed ; and 
finally Doctor Drake administered some of his 
ammonia and valerian, and she became, at last, 
composed. 

With audible thanksgivings old Winnie 
accompanied her mistress upstairs to her room, 
where Aunt Dinah herself, who, notwithstand- 
ing her necromancy, was a well-intending, 
pious churchwoman, descended to her knees 
at her bedside, and poured forth her gratitude 
for the reprieve, and then in a loud and dis- 
tinct voice read to old Winnie Dobbs the 
twentieth chapter of the Second Book of 
Kings, in which we read how the good king 
Hezekiah obtained by prayer, ten years more 
of the light of life. 

Then old Winnie persuaded her to have a 
glass of very hot port wine-negus, which agreed 
with her so well that she quickly fell asleep ; 
and, never did poor lady need repose more, or 
drink deeper and more tranquil draughts of 
that Lethe. 

William Maubray was now wide awake, and 
he and the doctor, being a little., chilly, sat 
before the study fire. 

“ It’s jolly, isn’t it ?” exclaimed William, 
for the seventh time. But is’nt it all very 
odd, sir, and very unaccountable — I — I 
think ?” 

Very, very odd, to be sure,” said the 
doctor, poking the corner of a lump of coal — 

very, no doubt.” 

“ I wish I had been awake. I should like 
to see one of those things — those seances. I 
had no idea there really was anything so 
coherent.” 

“ Very lucky for her,” replied the doctor, 
with a sly little wink to William. 

William looked inquringly at the doctor, 
who smiled on the poker’s end, and pushed 
the embers gently with it. 

You don’t believe in it, sir — do you ?” 
inquired William, puzzled. 

“I? Well, I don’t know exactly what to 
say, you know. I put my foot in it on Sunday 
last, w^hen I told her I did not believe a bit of 
it ; nor more I did. Egad, you never saw a 
woman so angry, when I called it all bosh. 
You’d better not vex her that way, my boy — 
d’ye see ? She lent me one of those wonderful 
queer books from America — very odd they are 
— and I read it to please her. So, you see, 
that’s how we stand ; very good friends again.” 

And you are convinced it’s true ?” urged 
William, who, like other young men who sit 
up late, and read v/ild books, and drink strong 
coffee, was, under the rose, addicted to the 
supernatural. 

Why, you see, as Shakespeare says, there 
are more bubbles between heaven and earth 
than are dreamt of by the philosophers,” 
observed the doctor, with a little paraphrase. 
“ I wish to live at peace with my neighbours ; 
and I advise you to think over this subject, 
old fellow, and not to tease the old lady up- 
stairs about it — that’s all.’ 

2 


*”I wish he’d speak out, and tell me v/hat 
happened to-night, and tell me his real 
opinion,” thought William Maubray. “ I’ve 
read in some old medical book,” he continued 
aloud, that the vital electricity escapes and 
diffuses itself at the finger-tips.” 

Oh, to be sure ! All sorts of theories. 
The hand’s a very mysterious organ. The 
hand of glory, you may be certain, was not 
altogether a story. The electric light has been 
seen at the finger-tips in consumptive cases 
in the dark ; and a patient convulsed, or in 
a state of extrerne nervous exhaustion, will 
clench the hand so as to prevent the escape of 
this influence at the finger-points, and then 
joining hands, in love, you know, or friendship 
— and in fact it is, sir, a very mysterious 
organ ; and I’m prepared to believe a great 
deal that’s curious about its occult powers. 
Y"our aunt told you about thp toad she saw 
climb over her coverlet one night, and turn 
into a hand and grasp her wrist.” 

“ No,” said William. 

“ Egad, she’s ready to swear to it. Last 
winter she was so frightened, she was not fit 
to stand for a week after. She reads too much 
of those books. Egad, sir, she’ll turn her 
head, and. that will be the end of it. How- 
ever, we’ve pulled her through this, and I hope 
she’ll give it up, true or false. You see, 
there’s no good in it ; and if she goes on, 
sooner or later she’ll frighten herself out of her 
wits.” 

“ But that toad was a very curious idea,” 
said William. “ What does she make of it ? 
Does she think it was a fancy only, or a real 
thing ?” 

“ Pooh I A spirit of course. She calls it the 
key-spirit that unlocks the spirit world, you 
see ; and from the time it touches you, you 
are in report with the invisible world, and 
subject, as she says she is, to their visitations 
you see — ha, ha, ha I” 

William laughed too. 

“ Last winter ?” he said. “ She never told 
me.” 

“ Pooh I All fancies,” observed the doctor. 

“ Better she should not talk of them. Those 
American people are all going mad. She’ll 
get touched in the upper storey if she does not 
mind.” 


o- 


CHAPTER VIII. 

WILLIAM MAUBRAY’S VISION. 

After some more talk of this kind, they 
parted, and V/illiam Maubray, as he lay down 
again in his bed, wondered whether the doctor, 
whom he had heard described as a shrewd 
man, believed in the revelations at which he 
had assisted; or, was it possible — could he 
have been accessory to — Oh ! no, it could not 
be! 

The student, as I have said, had a sort of 
liidng for the supernatural, and although now 


18 


ALL IN THE HAEK. 


r.nd then lie had experienced a qualm in his 
solitary college chamber at dead of night, 
when, as he read a well-authenticated horror, 
the old press creaked suddently, or the door of 
the inner room swung slowly open of itself, it 
yet was “ a pleasing terror” that thrilled him ; 
and now as he lay this night awake, with a 
patch of moonlight spread askance on the floor 
— for Aunt Dinah insisted on a curfew, and 
he, “ preferring the light that heaven sheds” 
to no lamp at all, left the window-shutter a 
little open, and for awhile allowed his eyes to 
wander over the old-fashioned and faded 
furniture of the apartment, and his fancy to 
wander among those dreams of superstition 
with which he rather liked to try his courage. 

He conned over his aunt’s story of the toad, 
recounted to him by Doctor Drake, and which 
he had never heard before, until the nodding 
shadow of the sprig of jessamine on the floor 
took the shape of the sprawling reptile, and 
seemed to swagger clumsily toward his bed 
and every noise in the curtains suggested, its 
slimy clamberings. 

Youth, fatigue, pure country air, in a little 
wfliile overpowered these whimsies, and 
William Maubray fell into a deep sleep. 

I am now going to relate a very extraor- 
dinary incident; but upon my honour the 
narrative is true. Vv^illiam Maubray dreamed 
that he -was in the room in which he actually 
lay ; that he was in bed, and that the moon- 
light erAcred the room, just as he had seen it 
before going to sleep. He thought that he 
heard a heavy tread traverse the room over 
his head ; he heard the same slow and pon- 
derous step descend the narrow back stair, 
that was separated from him only by the wall 
at the back of his bed. He knew intuitively 
that the person thus approaching came in 
quest ^^f him, and he lay expecting, in a state 
cf unaccountable terror. The handle of his 
door turned, and it seemed that his intending 
visitor paused, having opened the door about 
a hand’s breadth, and William knew that he 
had only suspended, not abandoned his pur- 
pose, be it what it might. Then the door 
swung slowly open, and in the deep bhadow, 
a figure, of gigantic stature, entered,; 4)aused 
beside his bed, and seized his wrist with a 
tremendous gripe. " - 

For a time, unable to stir, h6 ren^kined pas- 
sive under its pressure. Then Jiwith a horri- 
fied struggle ho awoke. There was no figure 
visible, but his , wrist was actually compressed 
in a cold grasp, and,* with a ghastly ejacula- 
tion, he sprang from his bed and was re- 
leased. 

He had no means of lighting a candle ; he 
had nothing for it but to bounce to the win- 
dow, fling curtains and shutters wide, and 
admit the full flood of moonlight, which 
•revealed the contents of the room, and showed 
that no figure but his own w^as there. But 
there were the marks of the grasp that had 
hold him, still visible. He secured his door, 
and made search, in a state of horror, but was; 
convinced. There was no visible intruder in 
the chamber. 


Now William got back into his bed. For 
the first time in his life he had experienced a 
paroxysm of that wild fear with which it had 
been so often his delight to trifle. He heard 
the clock at the stair-head strike hour after 
hour, and at last, after having experienced 
every stage in the subsidence of such horrors, 
fairly overcome by fatigue, he sunk to sleep. 

How welcome and how beautiful shone the 
morning I Slanting by his window, the sun- 
beam touched the quivering jessamine leaves 
and the clustering roses, and in the dewy aii 
he heard the chirp and whistle of the happy 
birds. He threw up his window, and breathed 
the perfumed air, and welcomed all the 
pleasant sounds of morning in that pleasant 
season. 

“ The cock he crew, 

Away then flew 

The fiends from the church-door.” 

And so the uncomfortable and odious shadows 
of the night winged their foul flight before 
these cheerful influences, and William Mau- 
bray, though he felt the want of his accus- 
tomed sleep, ran down the well-known stairs, 
and heard with a happy heart from Winnie 
Dobbs that his kind old aunt was ever so 
much better. 

Doctor Drake had withdrawn from his un- 
comfortable bivouac, carrying with him his 
night-cap and slippers, and hastening to his 
toilet in the pleasant’ town of Saxton, where, 
no doubt. Miss Letty cross-questioned him 
minutely upon the occurrences of the night. 

I have said before that the resources of 
Gilroyd were nothing very remarkable ; still, 
there was the Saxton Cricket Club, who 
practised zealously, and always welcomed 
William, whose hit to leg was famous, and 
even recorded as commendable in the annual 
volume of the great Mr. Lillywhite ; where 
he was noted, in terms that perplexed Aunt 
Dinah, as a promising young bat, with a good 
defence. He fished a little ; and he played 
at fives v/ith young Trevor of Eevington, 
whom nobody very much liked — tlie squire of 
Saxton, who assumed territorial and other 
airs that were oppressive, although Eevington 
was only two thousand five hundred j)ounds 
a year ; but, in that modest neighbourhood, 
he was a very important person, and knew 
that fact very well. 

He had of late distinguished Violet with a 
slight admiration, that ought to have been 
gratifying. Once or twice he paid old Miss 
Perfect a^ little neighbourly, condescending 
visit, and loitered a good deal about the garden, 
and that acre and a half of shrubbery, which 
she called “the grounds.” He sometimes 
joined' in the walk home from church, and 
sometimes in other walks ; and Aunt Perfect 
was pleased and favourable, and man}^ of the 
Saxton mothers and daughters were moved to 
envy and malice. 

“ I played to-day,” said William, giving an 
account of his' hours at tea to the ladies, “ two 
rubbers of fives ; with whom do you think ?” 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


19 


He stopi)ed, smiling slijy on Violet, who 
was steadfastly looking down on Miss Perfect’s 
crest on her tea-spoon. 

Well, I’m sure you know, by that unerring 
instinct 4hat poets speak of,” said William; 

but it is hardly fair to ask you to name him.*’ 

Violet looked up, having blushed very pret- 
tily, but not very well pleased. 

Of course I mean Trevor — Vane Trevor — 
of Revington. It sounds very well. Trevor 
was two years my senior at school ; he left at 
the end of the third half after I can^e ; that 
makes him nearly twenty-five now. How old 
are you, Vi, — you’d make a very pretty mis- 
tress of Revington ; yes, indeed, Vi, or any- 
where else. Don’t be vexed, but tell me ex- 
actly how old you are.” 

Ho tapped with his pencil on the table to 
hasten her answer, as he looked at her, smiling 
a little sadly. 

“ How old ?” she repeated. 

“Well?” 

“ Past seventeen. Why do you want to 
know ?” she added, laughing. 

“ Well, he’s not quite five-and-twenty yet ; 
only twenty-four to your seventeen. Seven 
years is a very pretty difference.” 

“ What are you talking about, William ? 
This kind of thing is thought very funny : it 
is very disagreeable. If people will talk non- 
sense, do let it be amusing. You used to be 
sometimes amusing.” 

“ That was long ago, when I told you ^ Sin- 
bad the Sailor,’ and ‘The Romance of the 
Forest ; ’ before the romance of the shrubbery 
commenced.” 

“ Folly ” exclaimed Violet. 




CHAPTER IX. 

IN TOICH MISS VIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS OF 

MU. VANE TREVOR, AND IS VIOLET NO LONGER. 

“ Now, T tell you,” continued William Mau- 
bray, and he glanced at Aunt Dinah ; but she 
was reading, with her gold spectacles on, the 
second of a series of old letters, which she had 
in an old stamped letter box beside her, and 
had forgotten all else. “ You really must tell 
me what you think of Vane Trevor ?” 

Miss Vi fixed her glowing eyes full upon his 
for a moment, and then dropped them sud- 
denly. His were full of their old, gentle, good- 
natured mirth. 

There was a little pause, and, suddenly look- 
ing up, she said, rather petfflantly ; 

“ Think of him ? Why, I suppose I think 
what every one else does. , I think him hand- 
some ; I think him agreeable ; I think ho has 
an estate ; I think he looks like a gentleman ; 
and I think he is the only man who ever ap- 
pears in this neighbourhood that is not in 
one way or other a bore. [Shall I sing you a 
song?” 

And with heightenea colour and bright 


eyes, this handsome girl sat down to the 
piano, which had a cracked and ancient 
voice, like the reedy thrum of a hurdy-gurdy, 
contrasting quaintly with her own mellow 
tones, and she sang — nothing to the purpose, 
nothing with a sly, allegoric satire in it, but 
the first thing that came into her head — 
sweet and sad as a song of old times ; and 
ancient Miss Perfect, for a verse or so, lower- 
ed her letter, and listened, smiling, with a 
little sigh ; and William, listening also, fell 
into a brown study, as he looked on the pretty 
songstress, and her warblings mingled with 
his dreams. 

“ Thank you, little Vi,” said he, rising with 
a sudden smile, and standing beside her as 
the music ceased. “Very pretty — very 
sweet.” 

“ I am glad you like it, William,” she said, 
kindly. 

“ William^ again !” he repeated. 

« Well— yes.” 

“ And why not Willie, as it used to be ?” he 
persisted. 

“ Because it sounds foolish, somehow. I’m 
sure you think so. I do.” 

It seemed to him, as, with a sad smile, he 
looked at her, thinking over the words that 
sounded so like a farewell, so light and cruel, 
too, that there yet was wisdom-7-that preco- 
cious wisdom with which nature accomplishes 
the weaker sex — in her decision ; and some- 
thing of approval lighted up his sad smile, 
and he said, with a little nod : 

“ I believe the young lady says wisely ; yes, 
you are a wise little woman, and I submit.” 

Perhaps, she was a little disappointed at 
his r(?ady acquiescence ; at all events, she 
wound up with a loud chord on the piano, 
and standing up, said ; 

“ Yes, it sounds foolish, and so, indeed, I 
think, does William ; and people can’t go on 
being children always, and talking nonsense ; 
and you know we are no relations — at least, 
that I know of — and I’ll call you — ^yes, I will 
— 3fr. 3Iauhray. People may be just as friendly, 
and yet — and yet call one another by their 
right names. And now, Mr. Maubray, will 
you have some tea ?” 

“No, thanks; no more tea to-night. I’m 
sure it has lost its flavour. It would not taste 
like tea.” , 

“Wha^ the matter with the tea?” asked 
Miss Penect, over the edge of her letter. 
“ You don’t like your tea, William? Is not it 
strong enough ?” 

“ Quito ; too much ; almost bitter, and a 
little cold.” 

“ Fancy, child,” said Aunt Dinah, who ap- 
prehended a new attack on her tea-chest, and 
hated waste. “ I think it particularly good 
this evening,” and she sipped a little in evi- 
dence of her liking, and once more relapsed 
into reading. 

“ I can add water,” said Violet, touching the 
little ivory handle of the tea-um with the tip 
of her finger, and not choosing to apprehend 
William’s allegory. 

“ No, thank you, Vi — Violet, I mean — Miss 


20 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


Darkwell; indeed, I forgot. What shall I 
read to-night ?” and he strode listlessly to the 
little book case, whose polished surface flashed 
pleasantly to the flicker of the wood fire. 

‘ Bos weirs Johnson,’ ‘ Sir Charles Grandi- 
son, “ Bishop Horsley’s Sermons,’ ^ Trimmer’s 
Works,’ ‘A Simple Story,’ ‘ Watts’ Sacred 
Songs,’ ‘ Rasselas,’ ‘ Poems, by Alfred Tenny- 
son.’ ” 

His quiet voice as he read the names on the 
backs of Aunt Dinah’s miscellaneous collec- 
tion, sounded changed and older, ever so 
much, in Violet’s ear. All on a sudden for 
both, a part of their lives had been cut otf, 
and a very pleasant time changed irrevocably 
to a retrospect. 

“I think ‘ Tennyson.’ What do you?” he 
asked, turning a smile that seemed faded now, 
but kindly as ever, upon her. 

• As the old name was gone, and the new 
intolerable, he compounded by calling her by 
none ; and she, likewise, in her answer : 

“Oh! yes, Tennyson, Tennyson, by all 
means ; that is, if Miss Perfect wishes.” 

“Yes — oh! to be sure; but haven’t you 
read it before ?” acquiesced Miss Perfect. 

W^illiam smiled at Violet, and said to Miss 
Dinah, “I think — and don’t you?” — this was 
to Vi, parenthetically, that poetry is never 
heard fairly on a first reading. It resembles 
music — you must know it a little to enjoy it.” 

“ That’s just what I think,” said Violet, 
eagerly. 

“ Very good, young people,” said my aunt, 
with a little toss of her head. “ For my part, 
I think there’s but one Book will bear repeated 
reading, and that is the Bible.” 

“Not even < Elihu Bung ?’ ” suggested Wil- 
liam. 

“ There — ^read your poetry,” said Miss Per- 
fect. “ I shan’t interrupt ; I’m reading these, 
looking back for the date of a family event.” 

This was an exercise not unfrcquently im- 
posed on her by Henbane, who now and then 
made a slip in such matters, and thus perplex- 
ed and troubled Aunt Dinah, who had some- 
times her secret misgivings about his accuracy 
and morality. 

“ What shall I read ?” asked William iii a 
lower tone. 

“ Anything, ‘ Mariana,’ ” she answered. 

“ The ‘ Moated Grange,’ ” repeated William, 
and smiled. “ ^ The poetry of monotony.’ I 
could fancy, if a few pleasant faces were gone, 
this Gilroyd Hall, much as I like it, very like 
the Moated Grange.” 

And without more preface he read that ex- 
quisite little poem through, and then leaned 
back in his chair, the book open upon the 
table, pretty Violet sat opposite, working at 
her crochet, in a reverie, as was he as he .gazed 
on her. 

“ Where did she learn all that ? How much 
wiser they are than we. What a jolly ass I 
was at seventeen, and all the fellows. What 
fools — weren’t they ? — in things like that ; and 
by Jove 1 she’s quite right, I could not go on 
F/-ing her all my days, just because when she 
svas a child she used to be here. They are 


certainly awfully wise in that sort of thing. 
Pretty head she has — busy, busy — quite a lit- 
tle w'orld within it now, I dare say. What a 
wonder of wonders, that little casket I Pretty 
hair, awfully pretty ; and the shape of her 
head, so pretty, and yet the oval reminds me, 
right or wrong, of a serpent’s head; but 'she 
has nothing of that in her, only the wisdom, 
and, perhaps the fascination. She’ll make 
some fellow’s heart sore yet ; she’ll make some 
■great match, I dare say ; but that’s a long way 
oft, eight years ; yes, she’ll be twenty-four then ; 
time enough before her.” 

“ Is there any cricket for to-morrow ?” asked 
Vi on a sudden. 

“No match, no. I’m going up to look at 
Revington. Trevor said he’d call for me early 
— eleven o’clock — for we, mind ; and you 
know I begin to feel an interest in Reving- 
ton.” 

“Oh 1 it’s very pretty, great old timber,” 
she said, “ and a handsome place, and a good 
estate — three thousand a year, only it owes 
some money. What an ambitious, audacious 
person I must be. I’m certain you think so, 
because it is quite plain I covet my neighbour’s 
house, and his ox, and his ass, and everything 
that is his ; and coveting. Dr. Mainwaring tells 
us, is the fountain-head of all iniquity, for 
how could a person so poor as I ever obtain 
all these fine things without fraud and chi- 
canery ?” * 

Miss Violet was talking a little recklessly 
and angrily, but she looked unusually hand- 
some, her colour was so beautiful and there was 
so strange a fire in her vexed eyes. What was 
the meaning of this half-suppressed scorn, and 
who its real object? How enigmatical they 
grow so soon as the summer hours of fascina- 
tion, and of passion with its disguises and 
sorrows, in all their transient glow and beauty, 
approach — ^the season of hope, of triumph, and 
of aching hearts. 


CHAPTER X 

VANE TREVOR IS DISCUSSED AJID APPEARS. 

It was in this mysterous turbulent frame of 
mind that old Winnie Dobbs, bearing the Bible 
and book of family prayers, surprised Miss 
Violet Darkwell, and recalled Aunt Dinah from 
the sound and fury of forty years ago, now 
signifying no more than the discoloured paper 
on which they w;ere recorded. 

“Dear me! can it be a quarter to ten 
already?” exclaimed Miss Perfect, ^plucking 
her watch from her side and inspecting it. 
“ So it is ; come in.” 

And fat Mrs. Podgers, the cook, and Tom, 
with his grimmest countenance, and the little 
girl with a cap on, looking mild and fright- 
ened. 

So, according to the ancient usage of Gilroyd 
Hall, to William’s lot fell the reading of the 


21 


ALL IN THE DAHK. 


Bible, and to Aunt Dinah’s that of the prayers, 
and then the little congregation broke up, and 
away went Vi to her bed-room, with old 
Winnie. 

William was not worse, nor, I dare say, much 
better than other young Cambridge men of 
his day and College ; but he liked these little 
“ services” in which he officiated, and they 
entered into his serene and pleasant recollec- 
tions of that sequestered habitation.! 

“Well, William dear, I thank God I am 
spared to be with you a little longer.” 

“Amen,” he said, “you dear Aunt, dear 
dear, old Aunt Dinah.” 

And they kissed very lovingly, and tnere 
was a silence, which Aunt Dinah in a few 
minutes broke by mentioning the very subject 
at that moment in his mind. 

“ You saw Violet a good deal grown — very 
pretty figure — in fact, I think her lovely ; but 
we must not tell her so, you know. She has 
been very much admired, and a good, affection- 
ate, amiable little soul she is. There’s young 
Mr. Trevor. I can tell you people are begin- 
ning to talk about it. What do you think ?” 

William sat down his bedroom candle on the 
tea table, rubbed the apex of its extinguisher 
with the tip of his finger, and returned an 
answer answerless. 

“ He’s very good-looking ; isn’t he ? But 
he thinks a lot of himself ; and don’t you 
think it would be an awful pity little Vi should 
be married so soon ?’ 

“ Then you think he means to ask her ?” 
said Miss Perfect, her silver-pencil case to her 
chin, her head a little aside, and looking very 
curiously into her nephew’s eyes.. 

“ I don’t know ; I haven’t a notion. He 
said yesterday he thought her very pretty; 
but Trevor always talks like no end of a swell, 
and I really think he fancies a prnicess, or 
something of the sort, would hardly be good 
enough for him.” 

“ It would, of course, be a very good match 
for Vi,” said Miss Perfect, dropping her eyes, 
perhaps a little disappointed, and running her 
pencil-case back and forward slowly on the 
edge of William’s plated candlestick, from 
which they both semned to look for inspira- 
tion ; “ but a girl pretty as she may look 
higher than Mr Trevor without presumption.” 

“ Yes, indeed, and there’s no hurry, Heaven 
knows. I don’t think Trevor half good enough 
for her,” said William. 

“ Oh, I don’t say that ; but — ^but more un- 
likely things have happened.” 

“ Does he — does he make love to her ?” said 
William who drew altogether upon the cir- 
culating library for his wisdom in those 
matters. 

“ He certainly admires her very much ; he 
has been very attentive. I’m sure he likes 
her, and I can’t hear that he is anything but 
a straightforward, honourable young man.” 

“ I suppose he is,” said William ; “ I’m sure 
he’s that. And what does Violet — Miss Dark- 
well — say ?” 

“ Say 1 Why of course I can’t ask her to 
say anything till he speaks. I dare say she 


likes him, as why should she not ? But that’s 
only conjecture, you know ; and you are not 
to hint it to him, mind, if he should question 
or poke you on the subject.” 

“ Oh, no certainly,” answered William, and 
there came a longpause.<» “ But indeed, aunt, 

I don’t think Vane Trevor half good enough 
for her.” 

“ Oh I that’s for them, my dear, to settle. 
There’s nothing, in point of prudence, against 
it.” 

“No — oh, no. Everything ver?/ well. Lucky 
fellow, to be able to marry when he likes.” 

“ And — but I forgot you don’t mind. You 
think there’s nothing in it. Still I may tell 
you. I have had — old Winnie and I— rsome 
answers.” 

“ Table-rapping ? ” said William. 

“ A little seance. We sit down together, 
Winnie and I ; and some responses, in my 
mind, can hardly refer to anything else, and 
most sweet and comforting they have been.” 

Once on this subject, my aunt was soon 
deep in it, and told her story of the toad 
which turned into a hand ; whereupon Wil- 
liam related his dream, and the evidences 
afforded by his waking senses of the reality of 
the visitation. My aunt was at once awe- . 
struck and delighted. 

“ Now^ William, you’ll read, I’ve no doubt, 
the wonderful experiences of others, having 
had such remarkable ones of your own. Since 
my hand was held in that spirit-hand — no 
doubt the same which seized yours — I have 
become accessible to impressions from the in- 
visible world, such as I had no idea of before. 
You need not be uncomfortable or nervous. 
It is all benevolent — or, at worst, just. I’ve 
never seen or felt that hand but once ; the 
relation is established for ever by a single 
pressure. I have satisfied Dr. Drake — a very 
intelligent man, "and reasonable — convinced 
him, he admits. And now, dear William, 
there is another link between us ; and if, in 
the mysterious ways of Providence, you should 
after all be taken first, I shall have the happi- 
ness of communion with you. Good night, 
dear, and God bless yoii, and be careful to put 
out your candle.” 

So William departed, and notwithstanding 
Miss Perfect’s grisly conversation, he slept 
soundly, and did not dream of the shadowy 
giant, nor even of Trevor and Violet. 

Pleasant, listless Gilroyd Hall I thought 
William, as, after breakfast, he loitered up and 
down before the rich, red-brick front of the old 
gabled house, with its profusion of small win- 
dows, with such thick, white sashes, and cas- 
ings of white stone ; and the i)ointed gables, 
with stone cornice and glittering weather- 
vane on the summit. That house, somehow, 
bore a rude resemblance to the old world 
, dandyism which reigned in its younger days, 
and reminded William of the crimson coats, 
the bars of lace and quaint, gable-like cocked 
hats, which had, no doubt, for many a year 
passed in and out at its deep-porched door ; 
whore I could fancy lovers loitering in a 
charmed murmur, in sumirer shade, for an en- 


22 


ALL IN THE TiA^K, 


chanted hour, till old Sir Harry’s voice and 
whistle, and the pound of his crutch-handled 
cane, and the scamper and yelp of the dogs, 
were heard in the oak hall approaching. 

Under the old chestnuts, clustered with ivy, 
Violet joined him. 

Well, how are we to-day? I think we 
were a little cross last night, weren’t we?” 
said William, with his old trick of lecturing 
little Vi. 

‘‘ We ! One of us may have been, hut it 
was not I,” she answered. 

think my watch is wrong. Did you 
happen to look at the clock as you passed ?” 

“ Half-past eleven.” 

“ Ah ! so I thought. How many hours 

long, Miss- ” (Vi he was going to say) — 

‘‘Darkwell, are contained in half an hour’s 
waiting ? The snirit of Mariana has come up- 
on me ; 

^ She only said, My life is dreary,” 

“ He cometh not,” she said ; 

She said “I am a- weary, a-weary, 

I would that I were dead 1” ’ 

Can’t you a little understand it, too? — not, of 
course, quite like me, but a little?” 

Vi was not going to answer, but suddenly 
she changed her mind, and said — 

I don’t know, but I think you were a great 
deal more agreeable when you were a school- 
bo}^ I assure you, I’m serious. I think 
you’ve grown so tiresome and conceited. I 
suppose all young men in the universities are. 
‘ A little learning is a dangerous thing,’ you 
used to tell me, and I think I can now agree 
with you — at least, it seems to make people 
vain and disagreeable.” 

Maubray answered looking on her gently, 
but speaking as if in a pensive soliloquy, and 
wondering as he went along whether he had 
really turned into a coxcomb ; for he was one 
of those sensitive, because diffident souls on 
whom the lightest reproof tells, and induces 
self-examination. 

I don’t know,” he said, “ that I’ve even got 
the little learning that qualifies for danger. I 
don’t think I am vain — that is, not a bit vainer 
than I used to be ; but I’m sure I’m more dis- 
agreeable — that is, to you. My babble and 
dull jokes were very well for a child, but the 
cliild has grown up, and left childish things 
behind ; and a young lady in her teens is more 
fastidious, and — and, in fact, is a sort of an 
angel whom I am not formed to talk to with 
a chance of being anything but a bore. Very 
unlearned, and yet a book-worm ; very 
young, and yet not very merry ; not a bad fel- 
low, I think,.and yet, with hardly a friend on 
earth, and— by Jove I here comes Trevor at 
last.” 

And Trevor entered the gate, and approachd 
them. 


CHAPTER XL 

UNDER THE CHESTNUTS. 

Vane Trevor was rather good-looking ; a young 
gentleman of the slender and delicate type ; 
his dark hair curled, and on his small forehead 
one of those tresses, twisted, barber-fashion, 
into a neat little Ionic volute, and his glossy 
whiskers were curled on each cheek into little 
rolls like pistol barrels. There was in his toilet 
something of elaboration and precision which 
was uncomfortable, and made one fear to shake 
hands with him, and wish him back safely 
again in his band-box. 

He approached simpering. There was a 
general air of May Fair — cameo studs, var- 
nished boots, and lavender gloves — that had 
nothing of the rough and careless country in 
it. 

“How do. Miss Darkwell — charming day, 
is not it ? Everything really so fresh ; you 
can’t imagine — as I came along, and a — this, 
now really this little — a — -placcj it looks quite 
charming — quite, really, now — a — as you turn 
off the road, there’s every thing you know to 
make it charming.” 

This latter period was delivered in a low 
tone, and with a gracious significance. 

“ How d’ye do, Maubray ?” 

“ Quite well, thank you,” said William, with 
a smile that had a flicker of unconscious amuse- 
ment in it. Perhaps without knowing it, ho 
was envying him at that moment. “ He’s a 
worse fool, by Jove! than I thought he was,” 
was his mental criticism ; but ho felt more 
conscious of his clumsy shoes, and careless 
get-up. “ That’s the sort of thing they admire 
— why should a fellow be vexed — they can’t 
help it — it’s pure instinct.” 

“ What delicious ground for croquet ; posi- 
tively I never say anything so beautiful in my 
life. Do you play. Miss Darkwell ?” 

“ Sometimes, at the Rectory — ^not here. The 
Miss Mainwarings play, and once or twice I’ve 
joined their party.” 

“ But they have no ground there,” insisted 
Mr. Trevor ; “ it’s all on a slope. I happen to 
know it very well, because, in fact, it belongs 
to me. Old Mainwaring pays me a pretty 
smart rent for it, at least he thinks so. Ha ! ha I 
ha 1” and Vane Trevor cackled gaily over his 
joke, such as it was. 

“ Do you play ?” demanded Violet of Wil- 
liam. 

“Croquet? — no, not much — just a little — 
once or twice— I’ll do to fill a place if you want 
a very bad player.” ' 

“ Oh, never mind, we’ll pull you through, 
or push you — ha, ha, ha! — we will, indeed. 
You’ll leajrn it a — in no time, it’s so simple — 
isn’t it. Miss Darkwell ? And then if you can 
get up one of those Miss Mainwarings — 
awfully' slow girls, I’m told, but they’ll do to 
play with ?/ow, Maubray, just by way of ballast, 
he’s such a fast fellow — ha, ha, ha! You’ll 
want a — a slow partner, eh?” 

“ Yes, and youHl want a clever one, so 1 
surrender Miss Darkwell, just to — to balance 


ALL IN THE DARK 


2b 




tl\e game,” answered William, who was a little 
combative that morning. 

“ Egad, I should like uncommonly to be 
balanced that way, I can tell you ; much 
better, I assure you. Miss Darkwell, than the 
sort of balancing I’ve been at the last two 
days, with my Steward’s books — ^lia, ha, ha I 
Awful slow work, figures. A regular dose of 
arithmetic. Upon my honour you’d pity me 
if you knew ; you really would.” 

You really would,” echoed William, “ if 
you knew how little he knows of it.” 

Come, now, old fellow, none of your chaff, 
but get the balls and hoops, if Miss Darkwell 
will allow you, and we will choose the ground.” 

^‘Lots of ground — I’ll choose that if you 
like — only yoviJll just run and get the hoops 
and balls, for we have none here,” answered 
Maubray. 

“No croquet !” ejaculated Mr. Trevor, ex- 
panding his lavender kid fingers, and elevating 
his eyebrows. “I thought every one had 
croquet now — I mean, you know, the mallet- 
things, and hoops, and balls, — and — and those 
little painted sticks, you know — and what are 
we to do. Miss Darkwell ?” 

“ I really don’t know. It’s quite true ; and 
besides we have not got Miss Mainwaring, 
you forget.” 

“ Oh ! you’ll send Maubray, won’t you,, to 
fetch her ?” 

“ Yes,” said Maubray, “ I’ll go with great 
pleasure, if Miss Darkwell wishes ; but as I 
never saw the young lady before, I’m not quite 
sure that she’ll come away with me.” 

“ Well, no — ^ha, ha, ha! — I don’t think she’d 
run away with Maubray at sight." 

“Particularly to come to you" replied 
Maubray. 

“ There now, let’s be serious — ^there’s a little 
fellow I saw at your gate — ^j^es, there he is. 
Miss Darkwell. Suppose you lot me send him 
to Revington. I’ve no end of those things 
there ; and I’ll give him a note to Sparks, and 
we shall have them in no time.” 

“ A long time, I’m afraid,” objected Violet. 

“No, I assure you; a mere nothing; not 
twenty minutes. Do, pray, allow me.” 

And he wrote with a pencil on the back of 
a card, an order to Sparks for the croquet ap- 
paratus, and away trotted the messenger. 

“ Three can play, you know, or two for that 
matter, as well as twenty, and so we can do 
quite well without troubling Miss Main- 
waring.” 

There was now a Imocking at the drawing- 
room window, where William had seen dimly 
through the glass, the form of Aunt Dinah at 
her knitting, with Psyche in her new collar, 
seated by her. All looked towards the signal, 
and Miss Perfect threw up the window and 
said : 

“ How do you do, Mr. Trevor ? what a sweet 
morning.” 

“ Perfectly charming,” responded the master 
of Revington, with a tender emphasis which 
Violet could not fail to understand, and smiling 
toward Miss Perfect with his hat in his hand ; 
and Aunt Dinah smiled and nodded again in 
return. 


“William, i want you for a moment~here, 
dear, you need not come in.” 

The instinct whic*h makes old ladies afford 
a dole now and then of a few minutes to lovers, 
is in harmony with the general rule of mercy 
and mitigation v/hich alleviates every human 
situation. 

As soon as Miss Dinah raised the window, 
William saw standing in the chiaroscuro of 
the apartment, a tall and rather handsome old 
clergyman. A little rusty was his black suit 
— a little dust was on his gaiters. It must 
have been he whom William had mistaken 
for the’ attorney who was to have visited his 
aunt that morning. He had seen him walk 
his nag up to the door about an hour ago and 
dismount. 

The old clergyman was looking observantly 
and kindly on William ; and, nodding to him, 
and with her thin hand extended toward her 
nephew, she said, “ This is he I” with a proud 
smile in her old eyes, for she thought William 
the handsomest fellow alive. 

“Happy to make your acquaintance, -sir,” 
said the cleric, stepping forward and shaking 
William’s hand. “I knew your father, and 
grandfather, and your aunt and I are very old 
friends; and I’ve just been telling her how 
happy I shall be” 

“ This is Doctor Waggett, my very good 
and kind old friend ; you may have heard me 
speak of him often, I dare say,” interposed my 
aunt. 

“ And your reading, sir, has been rather de- 
sultory, your aunt tells me, like my own, sir 
— ^ha, ha, ha! We had rather give our time 
than pay it ; read what is not exacted of us 
than what is. But I don’t know. Miss Per- 
fect,” continued the Doctor, turning to that 
lady, as if they were in consultation upon 
William’s case, “reading — that is in the case 
of a man who thinks, and I am sure our young 
friend here thinks for himself — resembles the 
browsing of cattle ; they choose their own 
herbage, and the particular flowers and grasses 
that answer their special conditions best, eh ? 
and so they thrive. Instinct directs us crea- 
tures, in the ’ one as in the other ; and so we 
read, he and I — ^ha, ha 1 what best nourishes, 
you see — ^what we can assimilate and enjoy. 
For plodding fellows, that devour the curri- 
culum set before them — neither more nor less 
— are, you see, stall-fed, bulkier fellows; 
higher priced in the market ; but they haven’t 
our flavour and texture. Oh, no, ha, ha! eh?” 

The ecclesiastic was cheery and kindly, and 
in his manner was a curious mixture of energy 
and simplicity, which William Maubray liked. 

The conclusion of this little harangue he 
had addressed to William Maubray ; and I am 
afraid that Miss Perfect was more interested 
by the picture on the lawn, for, without refer- 
ence to the doctor’s subject, she desired to 
know, looking with a pleased inquisitiveness 
at 'the young people, whether they were going 
to take a walk, or what 9 And prolonged her 
little tUe-iL-teU with William over the window- 
stool. 

* When William Maubray looked up again at 


24 


ALL IN THE DAKK 


Doctor *Wagget, that divine had picked up a 
hook, a trick of his, like that of the cattle 
from whom his illustration was borrowed, and 
who employ every moment’s pause at the 
wayside, in a pluck at the nearest foliage or 
tuft of grass ; and with the intimation, you 
may as well join t^iem,” Miss Perfect dismissed 
her nephew. 



CHAPTER XII. 

CROQUET. 

WmEE William Mauhray was thus employed, 
Mr. Trevor agreeably accosted Miss Violet. 

“Now we are to choose the ground, you 
know Miss Darkwell — ^jmu are to choose it, in 
fact. I think, don’t you, it looks particularly 
smooth just there. By Jove it does! — ^really, 
now, just like a billiard-table, behind those a 
— those a — what-d’ye-call-em’s — the ever- 
greens there.” 

“ I think it does, really,” said Miss Vi, glid- 
ing very contentedly into his ambuscade. 
“ There’s a little shade too.” 

“Yes, lots of shade ; I hate the sun. I’m 
afraid my deeds are darkness as Dr. Mainwar- 
ing says. There’s only one sort of light I 
really like, no w upon my honour — the light — 
the light you — you know, the light that 
comes from Miss Darkwell’s eyes — ^ha, ha! 
upon my honour.” 

The idea was not quite original perhaps, 
but Miss Darkwell blushed a little, and smil- 
ed as it were, on the leaves, and wondered 
how soon the messenger with the croquet 
things would return. And Mr. Trevor con- 
sulted his watch, and, said he would allow 
him a quarter of an hour more, and added 
that he would willingly allow the poor little 
beggar an hour, or any time *, for his part, the 
— the time, in fact, went only too fast for 
him. 

Miss Perfect, looking over her spectacles, 
and then with elevated chin through them, 
said : 

“ Where have they gone to? can you see?” 

“Yes — that is, I don’t know — I suppose 
sauntering about — they can’t be very far,” 
answered William, looking a little uneasily. 
And somehow forgetting that he was in the 
midst of a dialogue with Aunt Dinah, he 
strode away, whistling a little air, anxiously, 
in the direction in which he had left them. 

“We have such a charming j)iece of ground 
here,” exclaimed Violet, on whose cheeks was 
a flush, and in whose beautiful eyes a light 
v/hich Mauhray did not like. 

“ First rate ; capital, by Jove I it is,” ex- 
claimed Trevor in corroboration. 

“ I don’t sec anything very wonderful about 
it. I think the ground on the other side of 
these trees better, decidedly ; and this is out 
of sight of the windows,” said William, a 
little drily. 


“We don’t want a view of the windows — 
do we ?” asked Mr. Trevor, with an agreeable 
simplicity, of Miss Darkwell. “ The windows? 
I really did not think of them ; but, perhaps, 
Mr. Mauhray wishes to be within call for 
lunch.” 

Mr. Trevor laughed pleasantly at this cruel 
sally. 

“Well, yes, that, of course,” said William, 
and, beside, “ my aunt might want to speak 
to me again, as she did just now ; and I don’t 
want to be out of sight, in case she should.” 

This was very bitter of William ; and, per- 
haps, Miss Violet was a little put out, as she 
certainly was a little more flushed, and a short 
silence followed, during which, looking and 
walking slowly toward the gate, she asked, 
“ Is that the boy with the croquet ?” 

“ Yes — ^no — yeSj by Jove, it is ! What won- 
derful eyes yours are. Miss Darkw6ll ?” 

The latter reniark was in a tender under- 
tone, the music of which was accompanied by 
the long-drawn screak of the iron gate, as the 
boy entered with a holland bag, mallets, and 
hoops. 

The hoops were hardly placed, when Miss 
Perfect once more knocked at the window 
and beckoned. 

“ Aunt Dinah wants me again,” said William, 
and he ran to the window, mallet in hand. 

The old clergyman had gone away, and I 
think Aunt Dinah only wanted to give the 
lovers a few minutes. 

“ Vilikens and his Dinah,” said Mr. Trevor, 
and exploded in repeated cachinations over 
his joke. “I vote we call himVillikens — capi- 
tal names, isn’t it — I really do. But, by Jove, I 
hope the old lady won’t go on calling him up 
from his game every minute. We’d have been 
a great deal better at the the other side of the 
trees, where we were going to play, don’t you 
think ?” 

“ Ho is coming at last,” said Miss Violet. 

“ Shall we be partners, you and S ? Do let 
us, and give him two balls,” urged Mr.* Trevor, 
graciously, and a little archly. 

“ Well, I think that’s dull, rather, isn’t it? 
one playing with two balls,” remonstrated 
Miss Darkwell. 

And before, the debate could proceed 
William Maubray had arrived. 

“ Every one for himself, eh ?” said Trevor ; 
and so the game set in, Trevor and William 
Maubray playing rather acrimoniously, and 
making savage roquets upon one another ; and 
Miss Darkwell — though William dealt tenderly 
with her — was hard upon him, and, so far as 
her slender force would go, knocked him 
about inconveniently. “ Capital croquet, Miss 
Darkwell,” Trevor would cry, as William’s 
ball bounded away into perspective, and his 
heart felt sore, as if her ungrateful mallet had 
smitten it ; and his reprisals on Trevor were 
terrific. 

Thus, amid laughter, a little hypocritical, 
and honest hard knocks, the game proceeded, 
and Miss Darkwell, at its close, was the 
winner. 

William Maubray could lose as good 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


25 


humouredly as any fellow at other games, but 
he was somehow sore and angry here. He 
was spited by Violet’s partial dealing. Violet, 
how unnatural ! Little Vi ! his bird ! his pro- 
perty, it seemed, leagued with that coxcomb 
to whack him about — to make a butt and 
a fool of him. 

“ I’m not going to play any more. I’ll sit 
down here, if you like, and do” — gooseberry^ 
he was on the point of saying, for he was very 
angry, and young enough, in his wrath, to 
talk away like a schoolboy — “ and do audience, 
or rather spectator ; or, if you choose, Trevor, 
to take that walk over the Warran you pro- 
mised me, I’m ready. I’ll do exactly whatever 
Miss Dark well prefers. If she wishes to play 
on with you. I’ll remain, and if she has had 
enough of us. I’ll go.” 

I can’t play — there is not time for another 
game,” said Miss Vi, peeping at her watch. 
“ My aunt will want me in a few minutes 
about that old women — old Widow Grey. I 
— I’m afraid I must go. Good-bye.” 

^‘Awfully sorry! But, perhaps you can? 
Well, I suppose, no help for it,” said Trevor. 

And they walked slowly to the door, where 
Miss Vi pronounced the conventional invita- 
tion to enter, which was, however, wistfully 
declined, and Trevor and William Maubray 
set out upon their walk, and Miss Vi, in the 
drawing-room, sat down on the old-fashioned 
window-seat, and looked out, silent, and a 
little sulkily, after them. 

Miss Perfect glanced over her spectacles, 
with a stealthy and grave inquisitiveness, at 
the pretty girl. 

“ Well, dear, they went away ?” she said, 
after a silence. 

“ Oh 1 yes ; I was tired playing, and, I think, 
William wanted to go for a walk.” 

There seemed to be a great deal of fun 
over the game,” said Aunt Dinah, who wanted 
to hear everything. 

Yes, I believe so ; but one tires of it. I 
do, I know,” and saying this. Miss Violet 
took up her novel, and Aunt Dinah scrutinized 
her, from time to time, obliquely, over her 
crochet needles, and silence reigned in the 
drawing room, ‘ 

“ Very pretty Miss Darkwell is. I quite 
envy you. ' Your cousin, isn’t she ?” said 
Trevor, graciously. He felt that William 
would be flattered by the envy, even playful, 
of Vane Trevor, Esq., of Revington. 

Cousin, or something, someway or other 
connected or related, I don’t know exactly. 
Yes, I believe she is very well. She v/as 
prettier as a child, though. Isn’t there a short 
way to the Warren ?” 

Yes, I’ll take you right. She looks, I’d 
say, about seventeen.” 

“ Yes, I dare say,” answered William. “ Do 
you know those Miss Mainwarings — Doctor 
Mainwaring’s daughters?” 

But it would not do. Vane Trevor would 
go on talking of Violet Darkwell, in spite of 
William’s dry answers and repeated diver- 
gences, unaccountably to that pliiiosophlcal 
young gentleman’s annoyance. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

UNSOCIABLE. 

At dinner, in the parlour Ox Gilroyd Hall, 
there was silence for some time. William 
looked a little gloomy, Violet rather fierce 
and stately, and Aunt Dinah eyed her two 
guests covertly, without remark, but curiously. 
At last she said to William — 

You took a walk with Mr. Trevor?” 

“ Yes, a tiresome one,” he answered. 

« Where?” 

All about and round that stupid Warren- 
six or seven miles,” answered William. 

“How very fatiguing!” exclaimed Violet, 
compassionately, as if to herself. 

“ No, not the exercise ; that was the only 
thing that made it endurable,” answered 
William, a little crossly. “But the place is 
uglier than I fancied, and Trevor is such a 
donkey.” 

Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixed on Wil- 
liam’s, made a nod and a frown, to arrest that 
line of remark, which, she felt, might possibly 
prejudice Vi, and could do no possible good. 
And Miss Vi, looking all the time on the 
wing of the chicken on her plate, said, “ The 
salt, please,” and nothing more. 

“ Vi, my dear,” said Miss Perfect, endea- 
vouring to be cheery, “ he asked my leave last 
Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. 
He has two, he says, at Revington. Did he 
mention it to-day ?” 

“I — I — perhaps he did. I really forget,” 
said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down her fork, 
and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for 
as she raised her eyes, she perceived that 
William was smiling. 

“ I know what you mean,” she said, with a 
sudden directness to William. “You want 
me — that is, I think you want me to think you 
think—” 

“ Oh ! do stop one moment. There are so 
many ‘thinks’ there, I’m quite bewildered 
among them all. Let’s breathe an instant. 
You think I want to make you think that I 
think. Yes, now I have it, I Pray go on.” 

“ Polite !” said Miss Vi, and turned toward 
Aunt Dinah. 

“ Well, no,” said William, for the first time 
laughing a little like himself ; “ it was not 
polite, but very rude and ill-bred, and I’m very 
sorry ; and I assure you,” he continued more ' 
earnestly, “ I should be very angry, if any one 
else had made the stupid speech that I have 
just made ; and, really, I believe it is just this 
— you have been too patient with me, and 
allowed me to go on lecturing you like an old 
tutor — and — and — really, I’m certain I’ve 
been a horrid bore.” 

Vi made no reply, but looked, and, no 
doubt, thought herself more ill-used for his 
apologies. 

After tea she played industriously, having 
avowed a little cold, which prevented her 
singing. William had asked her. He turned 
over the leaves of a book, as he sat back in 


I 


26 


ALL m THE DARK. 


an elbow-cliair, and Aunt Dinah, was once 
more deep in her old box of letters, with her 
gold spectacles on. 

They were as silent a party as could be 
fancied; more silent than at dinner. Still, 
the pleasant light of fire and candle — the 
handsome young faces and the kindly old one 
— and the general air of old-fashioned comfort 
that ]pervaded the apartment, made the 
picture pleasant; and the valses and the 
nigger ditties, with snatches of Verdi, and 
who knows what composer beside, made the 
air ring with a merry medley, which supplied 
the lack of conversation. 

To William, with nothing but his book to 
amuse him, time moved slowly enough. But 
Miss Violet had many things to think of; and 
one could see that her eyes saw other scenes, 
and shapes far away, perhaps, from the music 
and that she was reading to herself the ro- 
mance that was unrolled within her pretty 
girlish head. 

< So prayers came, and William read the 
chapter and I am afraid his thoughts wan- 
dered, and he felt a little sore and affronted, 
he could not tell why, for no oiie had ill-used 
him; and when their devotions were over. 
Miss Vi took her candle, and bid Grannie 
good night, with an embrace and a kiss, and 
William with a nod and a cold little smile, as 
he stood beside the door, having opened it 
for her. 

He was growing formal in spite of himself, 
and she quite changed. What heartless, cruel, 
creatures these pretty girls are 1 

She had quite vanished up the stairs, and he 
still held the door handle in his fingers, and 
stood looking up the vacant steps, and, as it 
were, listening to distant music. Then, with 
a little sigh, he suddenly closed the door, and 
sat down drowsily before the fire, and began 
to think that he ought to return to his Cam- 
bridge chambers, his books, and monastic life ; 
and he thought how fortunate those fellow 
were — who like Trevor I — were born to idle- 
ness, respect, and admiration. 

“ Money !-^ — n money — curse it ! I wish 
I had a lot of it” and William clutched the 
poker, but the fire did not want poking, and 
he gave it a rather vicious knock upon the 
bar, which startled Miss Perfect, and recalled 
his own thoughts from unprofitable specu- 
lations upon the preposterous injustice of 
Fate, and some ultimate state of poetical 
compensation, in which scholars and men of 
mind, who i^layed all sorts of games excel- 
lently, and noodles, who never did anything 
decently — in fact, he and Trevor — would be 
dealt with discriminately, and with common 
fairness. 

“ Don’t, dear William, pray, make such a 
clatter I’m so nervous.” 

“ I beg a thousand pardons. I’m so 
stupid.” 

Well, it does not signify — an accident — 
but don’t mind touching the fire-irons,” said 
Miss Perfect ; and how did your walk with 
Mr. Trevor — a — a — ^proceed ? Did he — a — 
talk of anything ?” 


“ Oh ! didn’t he ? Fifty things, He’s a 
wonderful fellow to talk, is Trevor,” said 
William, looking with half-closed eyes into 
the fire. 

“ Oh, yes,” persisted Aunt Dinah ; “ but 
was there anything-— anything particular — 
anything that could interest us ?” 

Next to nothing that could interest any 
one,” said William; uncommunicatively 

Well, it would interest me^ if he talked cf 
Violet,” said Aunt Dinah, coming directly to 
the point. Did he ?’ 

Of Violet ? Yes, I believe he did,” an- 
swered William, rather reluctantly. 

“Well, and why did not you say so? Of 
course, you knew that’s what I meant,” said 
Miss Perfect. 

“ How could I know. Auntie ?” 

“ I think, William Maubray, you are a little 
disagreeable to-night.” 

William at these words, recollected that 
there was truth in the reproof. His mood 
was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to 
others. 

“ My dear Auutie, I’m very sorry. I’m 
sure I have been — not a little, but very — and 
I beg your pardon. What was it? Yes — 
about Violet. He did a great deal. He — in 
fact — ^he talked about her untill he quite tired 
me.” 

“ He admires her, evidentlyl Did he — a — 
talk of her good looks ? She w, you know, 
extremely pretty,” said Aunt Dinah. 

“ Yes, he thinks her very pretty. She is 
\ery pretty. In fact, I don’t think — judging 
by the women who come to church — there is 
a good-looking girl, except herself, in this 
part of the world ; and she would be consider- 
ed pretty anywhere — very pretty.” 

^ ‘ Revington is a very nice place, and the 
Trevors a good old family. The — the — con- 
nection would be a very desirable one ; and I 
— though, of course, not knowing, in the least, 
whether the young man had any serious in- 
tentions — I never alluded to the possibility 
to Vi herself. Yet, I do think she likes 
him. 

“ I should not wonder,” said William. 

“ And — and — he talked pretty frankly ?” 
continued Aunt Dinah. 

“ I suppose so. He did not seem to have 
anything to conceal ; and he always talks a 
great deal, an enormous quantity ;” and 
William yawned, as it seemed, over the recol- 
lection. 


o 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A SUNNY MORNING. 

“ I SUPPOSE, if he likes her, there’s nothing to 
conceal in that ?” challenged Miss Perfect. 

“ No, of course,” replied William, spirited- 
ly ; “I think she’s a thousand times too good 
for him, every way — that’s what I think ; and 


ALL IN THE HAEK. 


27 


I wonder, young as she is, Vi can be such a 
fool. What can she see in him ? He has got 
two thousand a-year, and that’s all you can 
say for him.” 

I don’t know that — I can’t see — in fact, 
he strikes me as a very pretty young man, 
quite apart from his property,” said Aunt 
Dinah, resolutely ; and I could quite under- 
stand a young girl’s falling in love with him.” 

W iiliam, leaning with his elbow on the 
chimney-piece, smiled a little bitterly, and 
said, quietly, “ I dare say.” 

I don’t say, mind, that she is. 1 don’t, up- 
on my life, know the least, whether she cares 
twopence about him,” said Aunt Dinah. 

I hope she doesn’t,” rejoined William. 

And why so ?” asked Aunt Dinah. 

Because, I’m perfectly certain he has not 
the least notion of ever asking her to marry 
him. He’s not thinking seriously about her, 
and never replied he. 

‘‘ Well, it’s nothing to vaunt of. You need 
not talk as if you wished her to be mortified,” 
said Aunt Dinah. 

“ I! — I wish no such thing, I assure you ; 
but, even if she admires and adores the fellow 
all you say, still I can’t wish her his wife — ^be- 
cause — ^because I’m sure he’s not the least 
worthy of her. I assure you he’s no better 
than a goose. You don’t know him — you 
can't — as the fellows in the same school did — 
and Violet ought to do fifty times better.” 

“ You said he does not think seriously 
about her,” said Miss Perfect. Eemember, 
we are only talking, you and I, together, and 
— ^and I assure you I never asked her whether 
she liked him or not, nor hinted a possibility of 
anything, as you say, serious coming of it; 
but what makes you think the young man 
disposed to trifle ?” 

“ I didn’t say to trifle,” answered William ; 
but every fellow will go on like that where 
there’s a pretty girl, and no one supposes they 
mean anything. And from what he said to- 
day, I wotild gather that he’s thinking of 
some swell, whenever ho marries, which he 
talks of like a thing so far away as to be near- 
ly out of sight ; in fact, nothing could be more 
contrary to any sign of there being any such 
notion in his head — and there isn’t. I assure 
you he has no more idea, at present, of marry- 
ing than I have.” 

H’m !” was the only sign of attention 
which Aunt Dinah emitted, with closed lips, 
as she looked gloomily into her work-basket, 
I believe for nothing. 

William whistled “Eule Britannia,” in a 
low key, to the little oval portrait of the Very 
Eev. Simeon Lewis Perfect, Dean of Crutch 
Friars, the sainted and ascetic parent of the 
eccentric old lady, who was poking in her 
work-basket, his own maternal grandfather; 
and a silence ensued, and the conversation ex- 
pired. 

Next morning, William, returning from his 
early saunter in the fields, saw the graceful 
head of Miss Violet peeping through the open 
window of the parlour, through the jessamine 
and roses that clustered round it. Her eyes 


glanced on him, and she smiled and nodded. 

Uncertain as the weather I” thought he, as 
he smiled and kissed his hand, approaching, 
“a lowering evening yesterday, and now so 
sunny a morning.” 

“ How do you do. Miss Violet i you said 
you wanted a water-lily, so I found two in my 
morning’s ramble, and here they are.” 

How beautiful. Thank you very much. 
Where did you find them ?” said Miss Vi quite 
glowing. 

In the Miller’s Tarn,” he answered. “ I’m 
so glad you like them.” 

“ Quite beautiful ! The Miller’s Tarn ? ” 
She remembered that she had mentioned it 
yesterday as a likely place, but it was two 
miles away ; four miles there and back, for a 
flower. It deserved her thanks, and she did 
thank him ; and reminded him in tone and 
look of that little Vi of other years, very plea- 
santly yet somehow sadly. 

‘‘ I mean to return to Cambridge to-morrow,” 
said William, a little regretfully; he had 
glanced round at the familiar scene ; “ and I 
am sorry to leave so soon.” 

“ And must you go ? ” asked Violet. 

Not quite must^ but I think I ought. If I 
had brought with me some papers I have been 
transcribing for Doctor Sprague, I might have 
sthyed a little longer, but they are locked up, 
and he wants the copy on Tuesday, and so I 
can’t help it.” 

‘‘ It was hardly worth while coming. Poor 
Grannie will miss you very much.” 

“ And you, not at all.” 

‘‘I? Oh, yes, of course we shall all miss 
you.” 

“ Some, but not you, Vi.” 

The old Vi” passed quite unnoticed. 

“ I, and why not I ? ” < 

‘‘Because your time^ is so pleasantly oc- - 
cupied.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said the 
young lady coldly, with a little toss of her 
head. “More riddles I suppose.” 

“ Mine are poor riddles ; very easily found 
out. Are we to have croquet to-day ? ” 

“ I’m sure I can’t tell,” replied she. 

“ Did not Trevor tell you he was coming 
here at eleven ? ” asked William. 

“I don’t recollect that he said anything 
about coming to-day,” she answered care- 
lessly. 

“ I did not say to-dayj’ said William pro- 
vokingly. 

“You did. I’m nearly certain. At all events 
I understood it, and really it does not the least 
signify.” 

“ Don’t be vexed — but he told me he had 
settled with you to come here to-day, at 
eleven, to play as he did yesterday,” said 
William. 

“ Ho I Then I suppose I have been telling 
fibs as usual ? I remark I never do anything 
right when you are here. You can’t think' 
how pleasant it is to have some one by you 
always insinuating that you are about some- 
thing shabby.” 

“You put it in a very inexcusable light,” 


28 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


said William, laughing. It may have been a 
vaunt of Trevor’s, for I think he’s addicted 
to boasting a little ; or a misapprehension, or 
— or an indistinctness ; there are fibs logical 
and fibs ethical, and fibs logical and ethical ; 
but you don’t read logic, nor care for meta- 
physics.” 

“ Nor metaphysicians,” she acquiesced with 
cruel scorn. 

“ Well,” said William, he says he’s coming 
at eleven, and ” 

“ I think we are going to have prayers,” in- 
terrupted Miss Violet, turning coldly from the 
window, through which William saw the little 
congregation of Gilroyd Hall assembling at 
the row of chairs by the parlour door, and 
Aunt Dinah’s slight figure gliding to the corner 
of the chimney-piece, to the right of the Very 
Rev. Simeon Lewis Perfect, sometime Dean of 
Crutch Friars, where the bible and prayer- 
book lay, and in the shadow her golden spect- 
acles glimmered like a saintly glory round 
her chaste head. 

So William hastened to do his office of 
deacon, and read, the appointed chapter ; and 
their serene devotions over, the little party of 
three, with the windows open, and the fra- 
grance and twitterings of that summer-like 
morning entering through those leafy aper- 
tures, sat down to breakfast, and William dftl 
his best to entertain the ladies with recollec- 
tions lively and awful of his college life. 

“ Half-past nine. Miss Violet ; don’t forget 
eleven,” said William, leaning by the window- 
frame, and looking out upon the bright and 
beautiful landscape. “ I’ll go out just now and 
put down the hoops.” 

“Going to play again to-day,” enquired Miss 
Perfect briskly; “charming morning for a 
game — is he coming, William ? ” 

“Yes, at eleven.” 

“ H’m ! ” murmured Aunt Dinah, in satis- 
factory rumination. 

And William, not caring to be drawn into 
another discussion of this interesting situa- 
tion, jumped from the window upon the - sward, 
and kissing his hand to Aunt Dinah, strolled 
away toward the river. ^ 


• 0 - 


CHAPTER XV. 

DINNER AT EEVINGTON. 

Trevor did appear, and was received smiling- 
ly ; and Aunt Dinah came out and sat a little 
apart on the rustic seat, and looked on cheer- 
fully, the day was so very charming. Perhaps 
she fancied it a case for a Chaperone, and 
being a little more in evidence, than a scat in 
the drawing-room window would make her, 
and with her work, and with Psyche at her 
feet, she presided very cheerily. 

.When, after two or three games, Trevor was 
taking his lorive, I^Iiss Violet Darkwell having, 
notwithstanding various nods and small frowns 


from Grannie, persisted in announcing that 
she was tired, and had beside a long letter to 
write before Tom left for the town, the master 
of Revington said — (he and Maubray were 
knocking the balls about at random) — 

“ I say, Maubray, you must come over to 
Revington and have a mutton chop, or some- 
thing. You really must; an old schoolfellow, 
you know, and I want to talk to you a bit, 
upon my honour I do. I’m totally alone, you 
know, at present, and you must come.” 

“ But I’m going to-morrow, and this is my 
last evening here,” said William, who felt un- 
accountably queer and reluctant. 

•What could Trevor want to talk to him 
about? There was something in Trevor’s 
look and manner a little odd and serious — he 
fancied even embarrassed. Perhaps it is some 
nonsense about little Vi. 

“ I want him to come and dine with me, 
Miss Perfect, and he says you can’t spare 
him,” said Trevor, addressing that lady. “ I 
really do. I’ve no one to talk to. Do tell him 
to come.” 

“Certainly,” said Aunt Dinah, with an im- 
perious little nod to William Maubray. “ Go^ 
William, my dear, we shall see you to-night, 
and to-morrow morning. He’ll be very happy 
I’m sure,” said Aunt Dinah, who, like William 
Maubray, possibly anticipated a revelation. 

So William, having no excuses, did walk 
over to Revington to dine. There was almost 
a pain at his heart as he paused for a moment 
at the stile, only one field away, and saw 
pretty Vi on the dark green grass, looking at 
the flowers, with little Psyche frisking beside 
her, and the kindly old front of Gilroyd Hall, 
and its lofty chestnuts in the sad evening 
light, and he sighed, thinking — “ Why won’t 
things stay as they arc, as they were ? What is 
the drift of this perpetual mutation ? Is it 
really progress ? Do we improve ? Don’t we ” 
(he would have said Violet?) “grow more 
selfish and less high-minded ? It is ail a beauti- 
ful decay, and the end is death.” 

Violet was plainly intent on her flowers, 
she had her hoe and her rake, and her move- 
ments somehow were so pretty that, unseen, 
he paused for another moinent. 

“ It is a blessed thing to have so little affec- 
tion that pretty creature ; old times are no- 
thing for her, and I, like a fool, yearn after 
them. The future for her no doubt looks all 
brilliant ; for me it is a story, to the end of 
which I dare not look, and the pleasant past 
is a volume shut up and over ; she is little Vi 
and Violet no longer, and even Miss Darkwell 
will very soon be like the- song of a dead bird 
— a note only remembered ; and — and I sup- 
pose I shall bring back the news to-night, a 
message from Mr. Vane Trevor, of Revington, 
to say that ho lays his heart and his title- 
deeds at her feet. It’s all over ; I look on it 
as all settled.” 

Just at these words the edge of the red sun 
sank behind the hills, and the last level beams 
of sunset gave place to the tender gray of 
twilight, except in the uplands of Revington, 
where they lingered for a fev/ seconds. 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


29 


“Ay,” said William, allegorizing ; “the 
shade for William Mauhray ; the golden light 
of life for Vane Trevor ! Vane Trevor of 
Revington ! William Mauhray of — nothing at 
all ! — charming contrast.” 

And looking still on Gilroyd Hill, and the 
fading image of Violet Darkwell and Psyche 
frisking about, no longer white, hut a moving 
gray spot on the sloping grass, he said, touch- 
ing his finger-tips to his lip and waving them 
lightly tow\ards her, “ Good-by, little Vi ; 
good-by, wicked little Vi ; good-by, dear, old, 
wicked little Vi, and may God bless you, 
you darling 1” 

So with a sigh and a sad smile, he turned 
and walked up to Revington. It is a good 
ancestral looking place, only a little too large 
for the estate as it now is. The Trevors had 
parted from time to time with many acres, and 
a house upon a scale which would have corre- 
sponded with three times their income, was 
rather a tax upon what remained. 

“ I never liked this place,” thought William, 
as the iron gate clanged behind him; “I 
always thought it gloomy, and stingy, and 
pompous. I wish he had let this dinner 
alone, I’d have been pleasanter at home, 
though it’s as well, perhaps, to hear what he 
has to say. I think he has something to say ; 
but, hang it, why could not ho tell it as well 
at Gilroyd, and to the people it c^cerns ? 
why need he bring me this stupid waiK up his 
hill ?” And William as he talked was switch- 
the laurel leaves at his side with his cane, and 
leaving here and there half a leaf or a whole 
one on the gravel, and sometimes half a 
dozen — not quite unconsciously; there was 
something of defiance, I am afraid, in this 
trespass. 

William came in ; the hall was not lighted ; 
he was received in the dusk ^by a serious and 
lather broad gentleman in black, who took his 
hat and cane with a bow, led him through an 
anteroom, illuminated dismally by a single 
lamp, and announced his name at the draw- 
ing room, where Vane Trevor received him, 
'advancing from the hearth-rug to the middle 
of the room, in an unexceptionable evening 
toilet, and in French boots, and shook hands 
with just a little inclination which implied 
something of state, though smilingly per- 
formed. 

Mr. Trevor was very conscious of the ex- 
tent of the mansion of Revington, of the 
scale of the rooms, of the pictures, anc^ in 
short of everything that was grand about him. 

William was a little disgusted and rather 
uncomfortable, and eat his soup, and '’Cutlets,- 
and kickshaws, gloomily, while Trevor, lean- 
ing on his elbow, talked away, ^vith a con- 
scious superiority that W'as at once depressing 
and irritating. 

They had a jug of claret — not the best-even 
in Trevor’s cellar, I am afraid — after dinner, 
and sat facing the fire, and sipping that 
nectar. 

“ Snug little room this,” said Trevor, look- 
ing along the ceiling, with his napkin over 
his knee, and his claret glass in his fingers. 


“ It isn’t a parlour, only a sort of breakfast- 
room. The parlour, you know, is a — it’s con- 
sidered a handsome room. Thirty-five feet 
by twenty.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said Wiiliam, with a dry 
carelessness. 

“ Ah ! well, yes — I dare say. A good many 
people — it’s an old place, rather — do know 
something about Rivengton.” 

“ Especially those who have lived the greater 
part of their lives within half a mile of it,” 
rejoined William. 

“Ah, ha! — yes; to be sure; I forgot you 
have been so constantly at Gilroyd. What a 
nice little bit of a thing it is. I could fancy 
growing quite in love with it — isn’t it ?” 

“Yes,” said William, shortly, and filled his 
glass, and drank it in a hurry. He fancied 
that Trevor was about to come to the point. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

OVER TEEIR CLARET. 

“ Great fun, croquet, isn’t it ? Awful fun with 
pretty girls,” exclaimed Vane Trevor, rising, 
and standing on the hearthrug, with his back 
to the fife, and his glass in his hand, and sim- 
pering agreeably, with his chin in the air. “ I 
think it capital fun, I know. There’s so much 
cheating — ha, ha ! — isn’t there ? — and such lots 
of — of — whispering and conspiring — and — and 
— all that sort of thing, you know ; and the 
girls like it awfully. At Torhampton we had 
capital games, and such glorious ground. Do 
you know the Torhamptons ?” 

“ The Marquess ? — ha — ha !-^no, of course 
I don’t; how should I ?” said William with a 
little laugh of disgust. 

i “ Oh ! well I — I thought a — but Lady Louisa, 
she is so sweetly pretty, I was told off pretty of- 
ten to play with her,and we had such fun knock- 
ing the fellows about. Capital player and 
awfully clever — they’re all clever — one of the 
cleverest families in England they’re thought ; 
the old lady is so witty — you can’t imagine — 
and such a pleasant party staying there. I 
was almost the only fellow not a swell, by 
Jove, among them,” and he ran his eye along 
his handsome cornices, with a sort of smile 
that seemed to say something different. “ I 
fancy they wish to be civil, however, I — from 
something Lady Fanny said — I rather fancy 
they have an idea of putting up Lord Edward 
— ^>'OU know, for the county, but don’t lot 
that go further, and I suppose they thought 
I might be of use. Won’t you have some 
more claret?” 

“ I don’t know them — I don’t understand 
these things ; I don’t care if all the Marques- 
ses in England were up the chimney,” said 
William, cynically, throwing himself back in 
his chair, wnth his hands in his pockets, and 
looking sulkily into the fire. 

“Well — ha, ha! — that need not prevent' 


30 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


your filling your glass, eli ?” laughed Trevor, 
graciously and indulgently, as though he be- 
longed himself to that order of Marquesses of 
whom Maubray spoke so slightly, and forgave 
him. . , 

“ Thanks ; I will,” and so he did, and sip- 
ped a little ; and after a little silence ho asked 
with a surly quietude, And why don’t you 
marry that lady — what’s her name — Louisa — 
if .she liked you ?” 

It doesn’t folloio that she likes me, and 
you know there are difficulties ; and even if 
she did, it does not follow that I like her ; 
don’t you see ?” and he cackled in gay self- 
complacency; “that is, of course, I mean, 
liking in the way you mean.” 

Again this desultory conversation flagged 
for a little time, and Trevor, leaning on the 
chimney-piece, and looking down on William, 
remarked profoundly — 

“ It’s odd — isn’t it ?” when you come to think 
of it, how few things follow from one another ; 
I’ve observed it in conversation — almost noth- 
ing, by Jove I” 

“ Nothing from nothing, and nothing re- 
mains,” said William drowsily, to the fire, re- 
peating his old arithmetical formula. 

“ And about marrying and that sort of thing ; 
seriously, you know — your glass is empty 
again ; do have some more.” 

So William poured a little into his glass 
and his heart seemed to stop and listen, 
although he looked as if he only half heard, 
and was weary of the subject. 

“ And as we were saying, about marrying — 
and by-the-bye, Maubray, it’s the sort of thing 
would just answer you, a quiet fellow-rwhy 
don’t you think about it, old fellow, eh ?” 

It was a way Trevor had of always forget- 
ting those little differences of circumstance 
which, in contrast, redounded to his import- 
ance, and he asked such questions, of course, 
quite innocently. 

“You kjiow very well I couldn’t,” said 
William, poking the fire, unbidden, with a few 
angry stabs. “ How the devil can a fellow 
marry in college, and without a shil- 

ling ?” 

“ Ah, ah, it isn’t quite so bad; come I But, 
of course, there is a difference, and, as you say, 
there’s lots of time to look about — only if a 
fellow is really spooney on a girl — I mean 
awfully spooney, the big wigs say — don’t 
they ? The best thing a fellow going- to the 
bar can do is to marry, and have a wife and 
lots of babbies — it makes them work so hard 
— doesn’t it? You’re going to the bar, you 
say, and that is the way to get on, ch ?” 

“ I’m glad there’s any way, but I don’t mean 
to try that,” murmured William, *a little bit- 
terly, and after a little pause, during which 
who knows what a dance his fancy led him, 
“I know that sort of talk very well; but I 
never could see what right a fellow has to 
carry off a poor girl to his den, merely that 
her hunger, and misery, and cries may stimu- 
late him to get on at the bar ; and the fact is, 
some fellows are slaves, and some can do just 
as they please ; and life is damnably bitter for 


some, and very pleasant for others, and that’s 
the whole story ; you can marry whenever you 
please, and I can’t.” 

“ I’ m afraid it’s a true bill,” said Trevor, 
complacently ; whereupon there issued a si- 
ence, and twice and again was William Mau- 
bray moved to break it with a question, and 
as often his voice seemed to fail him. At 
last, however, he did say, quite quietly — 

“ And why don’t you marry, if you think it 
so good a thing ?” 

Was it something in William’s tone and air, 
although he was trying his best to seem quite 
unconcerned, that elicited the quick, and 
somewhat cunning glance that Trevor shot on 
him? 

At all events Trevor’s manner became a 
little diplomatic and reserved. 

“ Why don’t I ? Oh ! fifty reasons — a hun- 
dred. There are all sorts of difficulties ; I 
don’t mean, of course, anything mysterious — 
or — or that sort of bosh ; and — and this house 
and the property, every one knows, are very 
well. I’ve been four years in possession, and 
I’ve no fault to find with Revington — either 
tenants or this^^^ and he nodded towards the 
ceiling, indicating that he meant the house. 

“ But — but you know, for a fellow like me ; 
we’ve been here, you know, a long time ; there 
was a Trevor here in Henry the Fifth’s time ; 
but you know more history than I do.” 

Tre’^^r considered his family and his domi- 
cile as a part of English history, and William, 
who was in an unpleasant mood just then, 
said — 

“ And tne estate was larger, wasn’t it ?” 

“ Ah, ha ; yeSj certainly ; that is, there was 
another estate,” acquiesced Trevor, eagerly, 
but looking a little put out. “ The Torhamp- 
tons, by-the-bye, have got it now ; a marriage 
or something.” 

“ A purchase, I thought,” insisted Maubray. 

“ A purchase ! very likely. It does not sig- 
nify sixpence if the thing’s gone, and gone it 
is. But you see, having been here for a longer 
time, I’m afraid, than you or I are likely to 
live ; and — and having, a sort of place among 
the people, you understand; a kind of a — 
quite undeserved — only because we have been 
here so long, that sort of an influence^ or what, 
ever it is, a fellew isn’t as free as you’d fancy. 
By Jove I he’s tied up, I can tell you ; horribly 
tied up. A poor devil like me. Egad, he’s 
not like a man with an income out of the 
fmids ; there’s that sort of thing, I suppose it 
is the shadow, don’t you see, of the old feudal 
thing, but so it is. There’s a sort of rural 
opiniqn, a liind of loyalty, in a very small 
way, of course ; but it is that sort of feeling, 
and there’s no use, you know, in blinking it ; 
and a fellow has to consider, you know, how 
his tenants and people would receive it ; and, 
ask any one, you can’t conceive how a fellow’s 
hampered, reaily hampered, now.” . 

“ Do you really think they care a farthing?” 
asked Maubray. 

“Care! You’ve no idea,” exclaimed his 
friend. 

“Well, when I make my fortune. I’ll keep 
it in the funds,” said Maubray. 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


31 


strongly advise you,” said Trevor, with 
admirable solemnity. “ Have some coffee ? 
And — and here’s curacoa.” 

“ When will we talk about Yi,” thought 
William, as he set down his coffee cup ; ‘‘ he 
can’t have brought me here to dinner merely 
to hear that pompous lecture.” 

And, indeed, it seemed to William tnat 
Trevor had something more to say, but did 
not know how to begin it. 


■ 0 “ 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MOON-SniXE, 

And now, for they kept early hours at Gilroyd, 
William, with a peep at his watch, declared 
he must go, and Trevor popped on his fez and 
produced his cigars, and he set out with Mau- 
bray, in the moonlight, to see his friend out 
of the grounds. 

As they walked down the slope, with the 
thick chestnuts of Gilroyd Hall and two of its 
chimneys full in view — the misty lights and 
impenetrable shadows of moonlight — and all 
the familiar distances translated into such soft 
and airy outline — the landscape threw them, 
I dare say, somewhat into musing, and that 
sort of sympathy with the pensive moods of 
nature which has, time out of mind, made 
moonlight the lamp of lovers. And some 
special associations of the scenery induced 
them to smoke on in silence for some time, 
insensibly slackening their pace, the night 
scene was so well worth lingering over. 

“ And — and your cousin — isn’t she ? — down 
there, how awfully pretty she is/’ said Trevor, 
at last, lowering his cigar between his fingers. 

^‘Cousin; I suppose we’re all cousins in 
some roundabout way related — I don’t know 
how. Yes, she is — she’s very pretty.” 

Darkwell ; connected, are they, wdth the 
Darkwclls of Shropshire V asked Trevor. 

“Perhaps — I really don’t know — I never 
knew there were Darkwells in Shropshire,” 
said William. 

“ Oh, dear, yes 1 I thought every one knew 
tliat. Darkwell’s the name of the place, too. 
A very old family,” said Trevor. 

“ I did not know ; but her father is a bar- 
rister, and lives in London, and has some 
sons, but I never saw them,” answered 
William. 

Trevor sighed. He was thinking what low 
fjllows these sons might possibly be. A bar- 
rister ! He remembered “ young Boles’s” 
father visiting Rugby once, a barrister, making 
fiftee^ hundred a year, a shabby, lean-looking 
Lilow, with a stoop, and a seedy black ffock 
coat, and grizzled whiskers, who talked in a 
sharp, dry way, with sometimes a little brow- 
beating tendency — not a bit like a gentleman. 
On the other hand, to be sure, there were lots 
cf swells among them. But still there was 
the image of old Boles’s father intruding into 


the moonlight, and poking about the old trees 
of Gilroyd. They had come to a halt under 
Ihe mighty clump of beech trees that you can 
see against the sky from the distant road to 
Audminton, and, after a silence, Trevor said — 

“ I remember a thing I saw in a play in 
London, about a fellow that married a mer- 
maid, or something of the sort; and — and, 
egad, they got on capitally till her family be- 
gan to appear, and — and the situation began 
to grow too — too fishy, in fact, for him ; so, 
by Jove, he cut and ran ; and — and I forget 
how the play ends ; but it was awfully funny.” 

“ Yes,” said William, “ they ought to come 
to us like Aphrodite, from the foam of the 
sea, and have no kindred — in utter isolation.” 

“ Who ?” asked Trevor. 

“ Our beautiful brides 1” exclaimed Maiibray, 
a little mockingly. 

“ It’s a confounded world we live in,” re- 
sumed Trevor, after a little silence. “ Look 
at me, now, for instance, how we are, and all 
this belongs to me, and has been ours for — 
goodness knows how many centuries ; and I 
assure you I sometimes feel I’d rather be a 
simple fellow with a few hundreds a-year, 
and my way to make in the world, and my 
liberty along with it — than — ^than all this.” 

“ Suppose we exchange,” said William, 
“ I’ll take the estate off your hands, and al- 
low you three hundred a-year, and your liberty, 
and wish you joy of the pleasant excitement 
of making your way in the world, and ap- 
plaud when you get on a bit, and condole 
when you’re in the mud#” 

Trevor only smiled grandly, and shook his 
head at William’s waggery. 

“But seriously, just consider. You know 
I’m telling you things, old fellow, that I 
wouldn’t say to every one, and this won’t, I 
know, go further.” He resumed after a little 
interval spent in smoking, “ But just think 
now : here’s everything, as you see ; but the 
estate owes some money ; and I give you my 
honour, it does not bring me in, net, when 
everything’s paid, three thousand a-year.” 

“ Oh, no !” said William, in a tone which 
urlconsciously implied, “a great deal less, as 
we all know.” 

“No, not three thousand — I wish it was,” 
said Trevor, ' with an eager frankness, that 
savoured of annoyance. He had not intended 
to be quite believed. “And there’s the — the 
position. You’re expected to take a lead in 
things, you see, as if you had your six thou- 
sand a-year, egad, or whatever it is ; and how 
the devil are you to manage it ? Don’t you 
see. And you tumble in love with a girl; 
and — and you find yourself encumbered with 
a pedigree — a confounded family tree, by 
Jove ! and every one expects you to — to marry 
accordingly. And I don’t say they’re not 
right, mind, for, by Jove! on the whole, I 
belive they are. So here I am with — with all 
this about me, and not a soul on earth to 
bully me, and yet I can’t do as I like. I don’t 
say, by Jove, that I do want to marry. I dare 
say it would not answer at all, at least for a 
jolly good number of years, and then, I sup- 


32 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


pose, I must do as the rest of the world does. 

I must, you see, have some money, and, I 
must have something of — of, you know, a — a 
family ; and that’s how I stand. Come along, 
it’s growing awfully late, and — and it’s very 
likely — ha — ha — ha ! — I may die an old 
bachelor.’’ 

“Well, you know,” said William, who 
thought that Trevor had spoken with extra- 
ordinary good sense, “there’s no such hurry. 
Fellows wait, as you say, and look about 
them ; and it’s a very serious thing — and, by 
Jove ! here we are at the g&te ; and I’ve had 
a very pleasant evening — jolly I I did not 
think two fellows by themselves, could be so 
jolly, and — and that capital claret !” Poor 
William was no great judge, nor, for that 
matter, indeed, was his great friend, Mr. 
Trevor, who, however, knew its price, and 
laying his hand on William’s arm, said — 

“ Well, old fellow, I’m glad — I really am — 
you enjoyed yourself ; and I hope when next 
you come, you’ll have another glass or two 
with mo. There’s one thing I say about wine, 
be it what it may — harfg it, let it be real, and 
get it from a good house ; and give my re- 
spects to your ladies — don’t forget ; and when 
you come again, we must have more croquet. 
Let the balls and mallets stay where they are, 
you know, till then; and God bless you, 
Maubray, old boy, and if I can give you a lift, 
you know, any way, tell me, and I dare say, 
my solicitor can give you a lift vdien you get 
to the bar. Sends out a lot of briefs, you 
know. I’ll speak to him, if you wish.” 

“A good time before that,” laughed Wil- 
liam. “ Many thanks, though ; I suppose I 
shall turn up in a few weeks again, and I’m 
beginning to take to the croquet rather, and 
we can have lots of play; but, by Jove ! I’m 
keeping you all night — good bye.” 

So they shook hands, each thinking more 
highly of the other. I’m afraid our mutual 
estimates are seldom metaphysically justi- 
fiable. 

“ Well,” thought Trevor, as lie smoked his 
way up hill to the house, “ no one can say I 
have not spoken plain enough. I should not 
like to have to give up that little acquaint- 
ance. It’s an awfully slow part of the world. 
And now they know everything. If the old 
woman was thinking about anything, this 
will put it quite out of her head ; and I can 
be careful, poor little thing ! It would be a 
devil of a thing if she did grow to like me.” 

And with a lazy smile he let himself in, and 
had a little sherry and water, and BelVs Life 
in a drawing-room. 

William Maubray experienced an unaccount- 
able expansion of spirits and sympathies, as he 
strode along the pathway that debouches close 
upon the gate of Gilroyd Hall. Everything 
looked so beautiful, and so interesting, and so 
serene. He loitered for a moment to gaze on 
the moon ; and, recollecting how late it was, he 
rang at the bell fiercely, hoping to find Violet 
Harkwcll still in the drawing-room. 

“ Well, Tom, my aunt in the drawing-room ?” 
said William, as he confided his coat and hat 
to that faithful domestic. 


“ Ay, sir, she be.” 

“ And Miss Darkwell !” 

“ Gone up wi’ Mrs. Winnie some time.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right, nothing like early 
sleep for young heads, Tom ; and it’s rather 
late,” said Wjdliam Maubray, disappointed, in 
a cheerful tone. 

So he opened the door, and found Aunt 
Dinah in Uie drawing-room. 


% 


CHAPTER XVin. 

SUPPER. 

“ Elihu Buxa” was open upoi the table, also 
the Bible ; and in the latter volume, it is but 
fair to say, she had been reading as William 
rang the bell. With her pleasant smile of 
welcome Miss Perfect greeted him. 

“ Now, sit down, William, and warm your- 
self at the fire — you are very cold, I dare say.” 

“ Oh, no : it’s quite a summer night.” 

“ And, Thomas, tell Mrs. Podgers to send 
up something for Master William’s supper.” ^ 

Vainly William protested he could eat 
nothing ; but Mrs. Podgers had been kept out 
of her bed — an allusion which was meant to 
make him feel, too, his late return — for the 
express purpose of broiling the boncjr with 
which he was to refresh himself; and Aunt 
Dinah, who had the military qualities strong 
wdthin her, ordered Tom to obey her promptly. 

“ Well, dear William, how did you like your 
dinner. Everything very nice, I dare say. 
Had liQ any one to meet you ?” 

“No, quite alone ; everything very good 
and very pleasant — a very jolly evening, and 
Trevor very chatty, chiefly about himself, of 
course. 

Aunt Dinah looked at him with expecta- 
tion, and William, who understood her, was 
not one of those agreeable persons who love to 
tantalize their neighbour^, and force them to 
put their questions broadly. 

“ Violet has gone to bed?” said William. 

“ Oh, yes, some time.” 

“ Yes, so Tom said,” pursued William. 
“ Well, I’ve no great news about Trevor’s suit ; 
in fact, I’m quite certain th<ire’s nothing in it.” 
Aunt Dinah’s countenance fell. 

“ And why ?” she enquired. 

“ He mentioned her. He admires her — he 
thinks her very pretty, and all that,” said 
William. 

“ I should think so,” interposes Miss Per- 
fect, with the scorn of one who hears that 
Queen Ann is dead. 

“ But he made quite a long speech, at the 
same time — I mean in continuation — and 
there’s nothing — nothing serious — nothing 
whatever — nothing on earth in ft,”' concluded 
he. 

“ Blit what did he say? Come, try and re- 
member. You are young, and don^t know how 
reserved, and — and how hypocritical — all 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


33 


lovers are ; they affect indifference often 
merely to conceal their feelings. 

“I hope she does not like him,” began Wil- 
liam. 

I’m very sure she doesn’t,” interpolated 
Aunt Dinah rapidly ; “ no girl likes a man till 
she first knows that he likes her.” 

Because he took care to make it perfectly 
clear that he could not think of maruying her,’’ 
added William. 

“Upon my life,” exclaimed the old lady 
briskly, “ remarkably civil I To invite her 
cousin to dinner in order to entertain him with 
such an uncalled-for impertinence. And what 
did you say, pray?” 

“He did not mention her, you see, in con- 
nection with all this,” said William. ^ 

“ Oh ! pooh ! then I dare say there’s noth- 
ing in it,” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, vigorously 
grasping at this straw. 

“ Oh ! But there is, I assure you. He made 
a long speech about his — his circumstances,” 
commenced William. 

“ Well, surely he can afford to keep a wife,” 
interrupted Dinah, again. 

“And the upshot of it was just this— that 
ho could not afford to marry without money — 
a lot of money and rank.” 

“ Money and rank ! Pretty well for a young 
coxcomb like Mr. Vane Trevor, upon my 
word.” 

This was perhaps a little inconsistent, lor 
Aunt Dinah had of late been in the habit of 
speaking very highly of the young gentle- 
man. 

“ Yes, I assure you, and he said it all in a 
very pointed way. It was, you see, a kind of 
explanation of his position, and although 
there was nothing — no — no actual connecting 
of it at all with Violet’s name, you knov/ he 
couldn’t do that ; yet there was no mistaking 
what he meant.” 

Aunt Dinah looked with compressed lips 
on a verse of the Bible which lay open before 
her. 

-“Well, and what did he mean?” she re- 
sumed defiantly. “ That he can’t marry Violet ! 
And pray who ever asked him ? I, for one, 
never encouraged him ? and I can answer for 
Violet. And yow always thought it would be 
a very disadvantageous thing for her, so young 
and so extremely beautiful as she unquestion- 
ably is ; and I really don’t know any ond hero 
who has the smallest reason to look foolish 
on the occasion.” “ Well, I thought I’d tell 
you,” said William, “tell what he said, I 
mean.” 

“ Of course— quite right I” exclaimed she. 
“ And there could be no mistake as to his in- 
f bntion. I know there isn’t, and — and really, 
as it is so, I thought it rather honourable his 
being so exjDlicit. Don’t you?” said William. 

“ That’s as it may bo,” said Aunt Dinah, 
oracularly: shutting the Bible and “ Elihu 
Bung, and putting that volume on the •)p of 
the other .j “ young people now - a - days are 
fuller a great deal of duplicity and — and 
v/orldliness^ "than old people used to be in my 
time. That’s uiy opinion, and homo goes his 


croquet in the tnoming. I’ve no notion of 
his coming about here, with his simpering 
airs and graces, getting my child, I may call 
her, talked about and sneered at.” 

“But,” said William, who instinctively saw 
humiliation in anything that savomed of re- 
sentment, “ don’t you think any haste like 
that might connect in his view with what he 
said to me this evening ?” 

“ At seven o’clock to-morrow morning, 
that’s precisely v/hat I wish,” exclaimed Aunt 
Dinah. 

At this moment Tom entered with the 
bones and other good things, and William, 
with the accommodating appetite of youth on 
second thoughts accepted and honoured the 
repast. 

“ And, Thomas, mind, at seven o’clock to- 
morrow morning, let little Billy Willocks 
bring over those great hammers, and wooden 
balls, and — and iron things ; they’re horribly 
in the way in the hall, with my compliments, 
to Eevington, to Mr. Trevor, and — and don’t 
fail. He’ll say — Billy Willocks — that they 
were forgotten at Gilroj^d. At seven o’clock, 
mind, with Miss Perfect’s compliments.” 

“ And I’m very glad, on the whole,” said 
Miss Perfect, after about a minute had elapsed 
“ that that matter is quite off my mind.” 

William, who was eating his broiled drum- 
stick, with diligence and in a genial mood, 
was agreeably abstracted, and made no effort 
to keep the conversation alive. 

“He talks very grandly, no doubt, of his 
family. But he’ll hardly venture his high 
and mighty airs with you or ^me. The Mau- 
brays are older than the Trevors ; and, for my 
part, I would not change the :name of Perfect 
with any in England. We are Athclstahes, 
and took the name of Perfect in the civil 
wars, as I’ve told you. As to family, William, 
you could not stand higher. You have, thank 
God, splendid talents, and, as I am satisfied, 
excellent — indeed, magnificent prospebts. Do 
you see much of your cousin Winston at 
Cambridge ?” 

“ Nothing,” said William, who was, it must 
be confessed, a little surprised at his aunt’s 
glowing testimony to his genius, and par- 
ticularly to “ his prospects,” which he knew 
to be of a dismal character, and he conjectur- 
ed that a supernatural light had been thrown 
upon both by Henbane. 

“ Do you mean to say that Winston Mau- 
bray has not sought you out or showed you 
any kindness ?” 

“ I don’t need his kindness, thank, goodness. 
He could not be, in fact, of the least use to 
me ; and I think he’s ashamed of me rather.” 

“ Ha I” ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with scorn. 

“ I spoke to him but once in my life — when 
Sir Kichard came to Cambridge, and he and 
Winston called on Dr. Sprague, who presented 
me to my uncle,” and William laughed. 

“Well ?” 

“Well, he gave me two fingers to shake, 
and that sort of thing, and he said, ‘ Winston, 
here’s your cousin,’ and Winston smiled, and 
just took my hand, with a sort of slight bow.” 


!4 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


“ A bow ! Well, a first cousin, and a hoio P 
“ Yes, and he pretended not to know me 
next day at cricket. I wish he was anywhere 
else, or that no one knew we were connected.” 

“ Well, never mind. They’ll he of use — of 
immense use to you. I’ll tell you how,” said 
Aunt Dinah, nodding resolutely to William. 


■o- 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DEBATE. 

I’d rather work my own way, auntie. It 
would be intolerable to owe them anything,” 
said William Maubray. 

I don’t say Winston^ but Sir Richard — he 
can be of the most immense use to you, and 
without placing you or me under the slightest 
obligation.” 

This seemed one of Aunt Dinah’s paradoxes, 
or of her scampish table’s promises, and made 
a commensurate impression on William’s 
mind. 

^‘You saw Doctor Waggett here yesterday?’* 

“ I know — yes — ^the old clergyman, isn’t he 
who paid you a visit ?” 

Just so ; he is a very old friend, very^ and 
thinks it a most desirable arrangement.” 

“What arrangement? I don’t quite ” 

“ You shall see,” interrupted Aunt Dinah. 
“ One moment’s patience. I must first show 
you a — a paper to read.” She walked over to 
a little japanned cabinet, and as she fumbled 
at the lock, continued, “ And — and when you 
— when you have read it — you — ah I that's it — 
when you have read it. I’ll tell you exactly 
what I mean.” 

So .saying, she presented a large, official- 
looking ^envelope to William, who found that 
it contained a letter and a paper, headed, 
“ Extract from the will and testament of the 
late Sir Nathaniel Maubray, of Queen’s Mau- 
bray, bearing date , and proved, &c., on 

, 1831.” 

The letter was simply a courteous attor- 
ney’s intimation that he enclosed herewith a 
copy, extract of the will, &c., as requested, 
together with a note of the expenses. 

The extract was to the following effect : 

“ And I bequeath to my said son, Richard, 
the advowson of, and right of perpetual pre- 
sentation to the living and vicarage of St. 
Maudlen of Caudley, otherwise Maudlin, in 
the diocese of Shovel-on-Headley, now abso- 
lutely vested in me, and to his heirs for ever, 
but upon the following conditions, namely, 
that if there be a kinsman, not being a son or 
step-son, of my said son or of his heir, &c., in 
possession, then, provided the said kimsman 
shall bear the name of Maubray, his father’s 
name having been Maubray, and provided the 
same kinsman shall be in holy orders at the 
time of the said living becoming vacant, and 
shall be a good and religious man, and a pro- 
per person to be the incumbent of the said 


living, he shall appoint and nominate the said 
kinsman ; and if there be two or more kins- 
men so qualified, then him that is nearest of 
kin; and if there be two of equal consan- 
guinit}^, then the elder of them ; and if they 
be of the same age, then either, at the election 
of the bishop.” 

Then there was a provision that in case 
there were no such kinsman the Dean and 
Chapter of the Cathedral of Dawdle-cum- 
Drone should elect a cleric, being of the said 
diocese, but not of the said chapter, or of kin 
to any one of the said chapter ; and that the 
said Richard, or his heir, should nominate tho 
person so elected. And it was also con- 
ditioned that his son Richard should procure, 
if practicable, a private Act of Parliament to 
make these conditions permanent. 

“He must have been a precious odd old 
fellow, my grand-uncle, observed William, as 
he sheathed the document again in the enve- 
lope. 

“A conscientious man, anxious — ^with due 
regard to his family— to secure a good incum- 
bent, and to prevent simony. The living is 
fifteen hundred a year, and there is this fact 
about it, that out of the seven last incumbents, 
three were made bishops. Three /” 

“ That’s a great many,” said William with 
a yawn. 

“And you'll make the fourth,” said Aunt 
Dinah, spiritedly, and took a i)inch of her 
famous snuff. 

“ I?" repeated William, not quite believing 
his ears. “ I am going to the bar.” 

“ Into the Church you mean, dear William.” 

“ But,” remonstrated William, “ but, 1 as- 
sure you, I, without a feeling of fitness — I— * 
in fact, I could not think of it.” 

“ Into the Church, sir.” Aunt Dinah rose 
up, and, as it were, mounted guard over him, 
as she sternly spoke these words. 

William looked rather puzzled, and very 
much annoyed. 

“Into — the — Qhurchl" she repeated, with a 
terrible deliberation. ^ 

“ My dear Aunt,” William began. 

“ Yes, the Church I ^ Listen tome. I — ^I 
have reason to — to know you’ll be a bishop. 
Now mind, William I’ll hear no nonsense on 
this subject. Ilenhane I Is that what you 
mutter ?” 

“ Well, speak out. What of Henbane ? 
Suppose I have been favoured with a — a com- 
munication ; suppose 1 have tried to learn by 
that most beautiful and innocent communion, 
something of the — the expediency of tho 
course I proposed, and have succeeded, 
then ?” 

William did not answer the challenge, and 
after a brief pause she continued — 

“ Come, come, my dear -William, you know 
your poor old aunt loves 3 "OU ; you have been 
her first, and very nearly her only object, and 
you Won’t begin to vex her now, and after all, 
to — to break her heart about nothing.” 

“ But I assure you,” William began. 

“A moment’s patience,” broke in Aunt 
Dinah, “ ymi won’t let me speak. Of course 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


35 


you may argue till doomsday, if you keep all 
the talk to yourself I say, William, there are 
not six peers in England can show as good 
blood as you, and 111 not hear of your being 
shut up in a beggarly garret in Westminster 
Hall, or the Temple, or wherever it is they 
put the — the paltry young barristers, when 
you might and must have a bishopric if you 
choose it, and marry a peer’s daughter. And 
choose what you will, / choose that, and 
into the Church you go ; yes, into the Churchy 
the Church, sir, the Church / and that’s enough, 
I hope.” 

William was stunned, and looked helplessly 
at his aunt, whom he loved very much. But 
the idea of going into the Church, the image 
of his old friend Dykes turned into a demure 
curate as he had seen him three weeks ago. 
The form of stout Doctor Dalrymple, with his 
pimples and shovel hat, and a general sense 
of simony and blasphemy came sickenly over 
him j his likings, his conscience, his fears his 
whole nature rose up against it in one abhor- 
rent protest, and he said, very pale and in the 
voice of a sick man, gently placing his hand 
upon his aunt’s arm, and looking with en- 
treating eyes into hers : 

My dear aunt, to go into the Church with- 
out any kind of suitability, is a tremendous 
thing, for mere gain, a dreadful kind of sin. 
I know I’m quite unfit. 1 could not.” 

William did not know for how many years 
his aunt had been brooding over this one idea, 
how she had lived in this air-built castle, and 
what a crash of hopes and darkness of despair 
was in its downfall. But if ho had, he could 
not help it. Down it must go. Orders were 
not for him. Deacon, priest, or bishop, Wil- 
liam Maubray never could be. 

Miss Perfect stared at him with pallid face. 

“I tell you what, William,” she exclaimed, 

you had better think twice — ^you had bet- 
ter ” 

I have thought — ^indeed I have — for Doctor 
Sprague suggested the Church as a profession 
long ago ; but I can’t I’m not fit.” 

“ You had better grow fit, then, and give up 
your sins, sir, and save both your soul and‘ 
your prospects. It can be^ nothing but wick- 
edness that prevents your taking orders — ^holy 
orders. Mercy on us ! A blasphemy and a 
sin to take holy orders ! What sort of state 
can you be in ?” 

I wish to heaven I were good enough, but 
I’m not. I may be no worse than many who 
do go into the Church. Others may, but I 
couldn’t.” 

“ You couldn’t ! You conceited, young, pro- 
voking coxcomb ! As if all the world were 
looking for miracles of piety from you I Who 
on earth expects you to be one bit more pious 
than other curates who do their best ? Who 
are you, pray, that anything more should be 
expected from you? Do your duty in that 
' state of life to which it shall please God to 
call you. ThaVs simple. We expect no more.” 

‘‘But that’s everything,” said William, with 
a hopeless shake of his head. 

“ What’s everything ? I can’t see. I don’t 


comprehend you. Of course there’s a pleasure 
in crossing and thwarting me. But of let or 
hindrance to your entering the Church, there 
is and can be none, except your secret resolu- 
tion to lead a wicked life.” 

“ I’m not worse than other fellows. I’m 
better, I believe, than many who do get or- 
dained ; but I do assure you, I have thought 
of it before now, often, and it is quite out of 
the question.” 

‘‘ You wonH said Aunt Dinah, aghast, in 
a low tone, and she gaped at him with flashing 
eyes, her gold spectacles shut up, and tightly 
grasped like a weapon in her hand. He had 
never seen her, or any one, look so pallid. 
And after a pause, she said slowly, in a very 
low tone — 

“ Once more, William — ^yes or no.” 

“ My dear aunt, forgive me ; don’t be vexed, 
but I must say no,” moaned poor William 
Maubray thus sorely pressed. 

Aunt Dinah Perfect looked at him in - 
silence ; the same white, bright stare. William 
was afraid that she was on the point of having 
a fit. Who could have imagined the dis- 
cussion of his profession so convulsive and 
frightful an ordeal ? 


■ 0 - 


CHAPTER XX 

FAREWELL. 

For a minute or two, I think she could not 
speak ; she closed her lips tightly, and pressed 
two of her fingers on them, perhaps to hide 
some tremor there ; and she went and placed 
one of her slender feet on the fender, and 
looked steadfastly on the macerated counte- 
nance of the Very Eev. the Dean of Crutch 
Friars, who, in his oval frame, over the chim- 
ney-piece, seemed to hear and endure Wil- 
liam’s perversities with the meekness of a 
good, sad, suffering Christian. 

Aunt Dinah sighed twice, two deep, long, 
laborious sighs, and tapped the steel of her 
stays ferociously with her finger tips. In his 
distress and confusion, William rose irreso- 
lutely. He would have approached her, but 
he feared that his doing so would but preci- 
pitate an explosion, and he remained standing, 
with his fingers extended on the table as if on 
the keys of a piano, and looking wan and sad 
over his shoulder on the back of Aunt Dinah’s 
natty old-fashioned cap. 

“ Well, young gentleman, you have made 
up your mind, and so have I,” said Aunt 
Dinah, abruptly returning to the table. “ You 
go your own way. I shall not interfere in 
your concerns. I shall see your face no more — 
never I I have done with yon, and dei^ehd 
upon it I shan’t change. I never change. I 
put you away from me. I wash my hands of 
you. I have done with you. I shall send a 
hundred pounds to Dr. Sprague, 'when you 
leave to-morrow, first, to pay college expenses, 


36 


ALL IN THE DAEK 


and the balance you may take, and that ends 
all between us. I hate the world, ungrateful, 
stiff-necked, rebellious, heartless. All I have 
been to you, you know. What you would 
have been without me, you also know, a beg- 
gar — simply a beggar. I shall now find other 
objects. You are free, sir, henceforward. I 
hope you may enjoy your liberty, and that 
you may never have reason to repent your per- 
versity and ingratitude as bitterly as I now 
see my folly. Go, sir, good night, and let me 
see your face no more.” 

William stood looking on his transformed 
aunt ; he felt his ears tingle with the insult of 
her speech, and a great ball seemed rising in 
his throat. 

Her face was darkened by a dismal anger ; 
her look was hard and cold, and it seemed to 
him that the gates of reconciliation were 
closed against him for ever, and that he had 
come into that place of exclusion at whose 
entrance hope is left behind. 

William was proud, too, and sensitive. It 
was no equal battle. His obligations had 
never before been weighed against his claims, 
and he felt the cruel truth of Aunt Dinah’s 
words beating him down into the dust. 

With her chin in the air, and averted gaze, 
she sat stiff and ui)right in her accustomed 
chair by the fire. William stood looking at 
her for a time, his thoughts not very clear, 
and a great vague pain throbbing at his heart. 
There was that in her countenance which in- 
dicated something different from anger — a 
cold alienation. 

William Maubray silently and softly left 
the room. 

He thinks it will be all over in the morn- 
ing, but he does not know meJ' So thought 
Aunt Dinah, folding her cold hands together. 

Gone to bed ; his last night at Gilroyd.” 

Holding her mind stifily in this attitude, 
with a corresponding pose and look she sate, 
and in a minute more William Maubray en- 
tered the room very pale, his outside coat was 
on, and his hat in his hand. His lip trembled 
a little, and he walked very quickly to the 
side of her chair, laid his hand softly on her 
shoulder, and stooping down kissed her cheek, 
and without a word left the room. 

She heard the hall door open, and Tom’s 
voice talking with him as their steps traversed 
the gravel, and the jarring sound of the iron 
gate on its hinges. “ Good night,” said the 
well-known voice, so long beloved ; and 
^‘Good night, Mr. William, good night, sir,” 
in Tom’s gruff voice, and a little more time 
the gate clanged, and Tom’s lonely step came 
back. 

“ He had no business to open the gate with- 
out my order,” said Miss Perfect. 

She was thinking of blowing Tom up, but 
her pride prevented ; and, as Tom entered in 
reply to her bell, she asked as nearly as she 
could in her usual way — 

My nephew did not take away his trunk?” 

No, mum.” 

“ Ho gave directions about his things, of 
course?” 


“ Yes, they’re to follow, mum, by the morn- 
in’ coach to Cambridge.” 

“ li’m I very good ; that’s all. You had 
better get to your bed now. Good night.” 

And thus, with a dry and stately air, dis- 
missed, he withdrew, and Aunt Dinah said, 
“I’m glad that’s off my mind; I’ve done 
right ; I know I have. Who’d have thought ? 
But there’s no help, and I’m glad it’s over.” 

Aunt Dinah sat for a long time in the draw- 
ing-room, uttering short sentences like these, 
from time to time. Then she read some 
verses in the Bible ; and I don’t think she 
could have told you, when she closed the 
book, what they were about. She had thoughts 
of a seance with old Winnie Dobbs, but some- 
how she was not exactly in the mood. 

“ Master William is not in his room, yet,” 
observed that ancient domestic. 

“Master William has gone to Cambridge 
to-night,” said Miss Perfect, drily and coldly, 
“ and his luggage follows in the morning. 1 
can’t find my night-cap.” 

So old Winnie, though surprised, was noth- 
ing wiser that night respecting the real char- 
acter of the movement. And Aunt Dinah 
said her prayers stiffly ; and, bidding old 
Winnie a peremptory good-night, put out her 
candle, and re-stated to herself the fact she 
had already frequently mentioned : “ I have 
acted rightly ; I have nothing to regret. 
William will, I dare say, come to his senses, 
and recollect all he owes me.” 

“ In the mean time, William, with no very 
distinct ideas, and only his huge pain and 
humiliation at his heart, trudged along the 
solitary road to Saxton. He sat down on the 
stile, under the great ash tree by the road- 
side, to gather up his thoughts. Little more 
than half an hour before, he had been so 
unusually happy, and nov/, here he sat ship- 
wrecked, wounded, and forlorn. 

He looked at his watch again. A dreadful 
three-quarters of an hour must elapse before 
the Cambridge coach would draw up at the 
Golden Posts, in High Street. Had he not 
better go on, and await its arrival there ? Yet 
what need he care? What was it to him 
whether he were late or not ? In his outcast 
desperation he fancied he would rather like 
to wear out his shoes and his strength in a 
long march to Cambridge. He would have 
liked to lift his dusty hat grimly to Violet, as 
he strode footsore and cheerless on his way. 
But alas I he was leaving Violet iliere^ among 
those dark-tufted outlines, and under the high 
steep roof whose edge he could just discern. 
There could be no chance meeting. Farewell I 
Back to Cambridge he was going, and through 
Cambridge into space, where by those who 
once liked him he should be found no more ; 
on that hb was resolved. 

So up he got again, without a plan, without 
a reason, as he had sat down ; and he lifted 
his hat, and, with extended arm, wa'^d his ♦ 
farewell toward Gilroyd. And the old ash 
tree looked down sadly, murmuring, in the 
fickle night breeze, over his folly. 


ALL IN THE DAKK. 


37 


CHAPTER XXI. 

WILLIAM CONSULTS A SAGE. 

Starting afresh, at a pace wholly uncalled for 
by time or distance, William Maubray was 
soon in the silent street of Saxton, with the 
bright moonlight on one side of it, and the 
houses and half the road black in shadow on 
the other. 

There was a light in Doctor Drake’^ front 
parlour, which he called his study. The 
doctor himself was in evidence, leaning upon 
the sash of the window, which he had lower- 
ed, and smoking dreamily from a church- 
warden ” toward the brilliant moon. It was 
plain that Miss Letty had retired, and, in his 
desolation, human sympathy, some one to talk 
to, ever so little, on his sudden calamity — a 
frienly soul, who knew Aunt Dinah long and 
well, and was even half as wise as Doctor 
Drake was reputed to be, would be a God- 
send. He yearned to shake the honest fellow’s 
hand, and his haste was less, and subsided to 
a loitering pace, as he approached the win- 
dow, from which he was hailed, but not in a 
way to make it quite clear what the learned 
physician exactly wanted. 

I shay — shizzy — shizhte — shizh-shizh- 
shizhte — V — — ^Viator, I shay,” said the 
Doctor — playfully meaning, I believe, Siste 
Viator. 

And Doctor Drake’s long pipe, like a shep- 
herd’s crook, was hospitably extended, so that 
the embers fell out on the highway, to arrest 
the wayfarer. So William stopped and said: 

What a sweet night — how beautiful, and 
I’m so glad to find you still up. Doctor Drake.” 

“ Alwayzh — all — alwayzh up,” said the 
Doctor, oracularly, smiling rather at one side 
of his cheek, and with his eyes pretty nearly 
closed, and his long pipe swaying gently, hori- 
zontally, over the trottoir; “you’ll look — 
insth’r pleashure — acquaintcnsh.” 

By this time the doctor, with his disengaged 
hand, had seized William’s, and his pipe had 
dropped on the pavement, and was smashed. 

“B1 — bloke — bl — bokel” murmured the 
doctor, smiling celestially, with a little vague 
wave of his fingers toward the fragments of 
his churchwarden, from the bowl of which the 
sparks were flitting lightly along High Street. 
“ Bio — ^boke — my — p — p — ^phife I ” 

“ I — shay, ole boy, you — come — in,” and he 
beckoned William, grandly, through the win- 
dow. 

William glanced at the door, and the doctor, 
comprehending, said, with awful' solemnity ; 

“All — ^thingsh deeshenly — in an — in or — 
or — orrer, I shay. Come — ole fellow — wone 
ye? — tooth th’ — th’ door sh’r — an’ — an’ you’ll 
norr regresh — no — never.” 

William, though not very sharp on such 
points, perceived that Doctor Darke had been 
making merry in his study ; and the learned 
gentleman received him at the hall-door, lay- 
ing his hand lovingly and grandly on his 
arm. 

“Howzhe th’ — th’ ladle — th’ admir’bl’ 
womr, over there, Mish Perfek ? ” 


“My aunt is very well — perfectly well, 
thanks,” answered William. 

“No thangs — I than g youj sh’r — I thang 
Prover’l ! ” and the doctor sank with a com- 
fortable sigh, and his back against the wail, 
shaking William’s hand slowly, and looking 
piously up at the cornice. 

“ She’s quite well, but — ^but I’ve something 
to tell you,” said William. 

“ Comle — comle — ong I ” said the doctor, en- 
couragingly, and led the way unsteadily into 
his study. 

There was a jug of cold water, a “ tumbler,” 
and a large black bottle on the table, to which 
the doctor waved a gracious introduction. 

“ Ole Tom, ole Tom, an’ w — wawr hizh 
dring the chryshle brook I ” 

The doctor was given to quotation in his 
cups, and this was his paraphrase of “ The 
Hermit.” 

“Thanks, no,” said William; “I have had 
my glass long ago. I — I’m going back to 
Cambridge, sir ; I’m going to make a push in 
life. I’ve been too long a burden on my aunt.” 

“Admiral wom’le sh’r? Wurle — worry — 
no wurrier — ^ladle ! ” (worthier lady ! I believe 
he meant) exclaimed the doctor, with growing 
enthusiasm. 

Contented with these evidences of mental 
vigour, William, who must have spoken to the 
roadside trees, rather than refrain himself, pro- 
ceeded to tell his woeful story — to which 
Doctor Drake listened, clinging rather to the 
chimney-piece with his right hand, and in his 
left sustaining a large glass of his favourite 
“ Old Tom ” and water, a little of which occa- 
sionally poured upon the hearth-rug. 

“And, Doctor Drake, you won’t mention 
what Pm going to say ? ” 

The doctor intended to say, “ silent as the 
sepulchre,” but broke down, and merely nodd- 
ed, funereally pointing his finger perpendicu- 
larly toward the hearthstone ; and having let 
go his hold on the chimney, he made an in- 
voluntary wheel backward, and sat down quite 
unexpectedly, and rather violently, in an 
elbow-chair. 

“ You promise, really and truly, sir ? ” pressed 
William. 

“ Reel-reel-reelan’-^oaraZ,” repeated the doc- 
tor as nearly as he could. 

And upon this assurance William Maubay 
proceeded to state his case, and feeling re- 
lieved as he poured forth his wrongs, waxed 
voluble ; and the doctor sat and heard, looking 
like Solomon, and refreshing his lips now and 
again, as if William’s oration parched them. 

“ And what, sir, do you think I had best 
do?” said William, not very wisely it must 
be owned, applying to Philip, certainly . not 
sober — for judgment. 

“Return to my duty?” repeated William, 
interpreting as well as ho could the doctor’s 
somewhat vague articulation. “ Why, I am 
certain I never left it. I have done all I could 
to please her ; but this you know is what no 
one on earth could be expected to do — what 
no one ought to do.” 

“ Wrong^ sl^r ! ” exclaimed the doctor with 


38 


ALL IK THE DAKK 


decision. ^‘Thersh— r — r — right, and th’rsh I 
wrong — r — ry — an’ wrong — moshe admiral 
ladle, Mish Perfeck ! — moshe amiable ; we all 
appreslieay — sheniorib — ^bush pie — ^ri — pie — 
oribush — ole Latt’n, you know. I ’preshiay 
an’ love Mish Perfey.” 

Seniorihus prioribus. There was a want of 
clearness, William felt, in the doctor’s views ; 
still it weighed on him that such as they were 
they were against him. 

“ The principle on which I have acted, sir, 
can’t be shaken. If I were, at my aunt’s de- 
sire, now to enter the Church, I should do so 
entirely from worldly motives, which I know 
would be an impiety such as I could not en- 
dure to practise.” 

“ Conn’ry toop — toop — prinsh’p’l — comity 
— conn^’ry,” murmured the doctor, with an 
awful shake to his head. 

The coach was now seen to pass the win- 
dows, with a couple of outside passengers, and 
a pile of luggage on top, and pulled up some 
sixty yards lower down the street, at the Gold- 
en Posts. With a hasty shake of the hand, 
William Maubray took his leave, and mount- 
ed to his elevated seat, as the horses, with 
their looped traces hanging by them, emerged 
from the inn-yard gate, like shadows, by the 
rapid sleight-of-hand of groom and hostler — 
to replace the wayworn team, now snorting 
and shaking their flanks, with drooping necks, 
and emitting a white steam in the moonlight, 
as they waited to be led off to rest and com- 
fort in the stables of the Golden Posts. 


o- 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AN ADVERTISEMENT. 

Chill was the night. The slight motion of 
the air was against them, and made a cutting 
breeze as they drove on. The gentleman who 
sat beside him in a huge cloak and fur cap, 
with several yards of cashmere swathing his 
throat and chin !ind chops, was taciturn, except 
when he offered William a cigar. The cold, 
dark and solitude helped his depression — and 
longing to see Dr. Sprague, to whom, in his 
helplessness he looked for practical counsel. 
The way seemed more than usually long. 
There was one conclusion clearly fixed in the 
chaos of his thoughts. He had done with 
dependence. No matter to what level it 
might reduce him, he would earn his own 
bread. He was leaving Gilroyd Hall behind 
him, and all its dreams, to be dreamed no 
more. Perhaps there was in the surrounding 
gloom that romantic vista, which youth in its 
irrepressible hepefullness will open for itself, 
and William Maubray in the filmy perspective 
saw a shadow of himself as he would be a few 
years hence — wealthy, famous, the outcast 
restored, with the lawn and the chestnuts 
about him., and pretty old Gilroyd spreading 
its faint crimson gables and glittering window- 


frames behind, and old Aunt Dinah, and 
another form in the foreground, all smiles and 
tears, and welcome. 

Poor fellow I He knows not how few 
sticceed — ^how long it takes to make a fortune 
— how the process transforms, and how seldom 
that kind of gilding touches any but white 
heads, and when the sun is near its setting, 
and all the old things past or passing away. 

In the morning William Maubray presented 
himself before Dr. Sprague, who asked him 
briskly — “ How is Miss Perfect? 

“ Quite well sir, thank you j but — ^but 
something very serious has happened — ^very 
serious sir, and I am very anxious to ask your 
advice.” 

Eh I” said the doctor ; “ wait a moment,” 
and he quaffed what remained of his cup of 
tea, for William had surprised him at break- 
fast. “Hey? — Nothing very bad, I hope?” 
and the doctor put on his spectacles and look- 
ed in William’s face, as a physician does into 
that of a patient, to read something of his case 
in his countenance. 

So William reported the great debate, and 
alas! the division on the question of holy 
orders, to all which the good little man 
listened, leaning back in his chair, with his 
leg crossed and his chin raised. 

You’re in the right, sir,” he said, so soon 
as he had heard the young man out — '‘^perfectly. 
What do you wish me to do ? I’ll write to 
Miss Perfeefif you wish it.” 

“Very kind of you, sir ; but I’d rather not, 
on that subject, at least till I’m quite out of 
the way. I should not wish her to suppose 
that I could seek to return to my old position 
of — of obligation. I must never cost her a 
farthing more.” 

So William explained his feelings fully and 
very candidly, and Doctor Sprague listened, 
and looked pleased though grave ; and, said 
he— 

“ You haven’t been writing for any of the 
Magazines, or that sort of thing?” 

No, he had no resource of that kind. Ho 
had a good deal of loose manuscript, be con- 
fessed with a blush, but he had no introduc- 
tion. 

“ Well, no,” said Doctor Sprague, “ you’d 
probably have a long wait, too long for your 
purpose. You have, you know, a trifle of 
your own, about twenty-three pounds a year, 
isn’t'it?” and he looked in the direction of his 
desk, where the memorandum was ; “ some- 
thing thereabout, that I received for you. 
There’s a money order for eleven pounds and 
something in my desk since yesterday.” 

“Don’t you think, sir, that I should apply 
that little annuity to pay back all I can to my 
anut, who has been so good to me.” 

“ Tut-tut, your aunt would not accept a, 
guinea, and would mistake your motive ; don’t 
talk of any such thing. Her past affection is 
a matter of kindly recollection. You could 
not reduce it to money — no, no ; but on the 
whole I think you have resolved wisely. You 
must undertake, for a little, something in the 
way of tuition ; I don’t meauv here. You’ro 


ALL IN THE DAEK 


39 


hardly well enough up in the business for 
that ; but we’ll find out something here^^' and 
he tapped the Times^ which lay open on the 
table beside him. I dare say, to suit you — 
not a school, that would not do either — a tutor 
in a country house. You need not stay away 
more than six months, and you’ll have some- 
thing to go on with then ; and in the mean 
time you can send your manuscripts round, 
and try if you can’t get into some of the 
periodicals. 

It is very odd, sir, but some months since 
I spoke of such a plan when I was at Gilroyd, 
and my aunt was positively horrified ; she is 
full of fancies, you know, and she told me 
that none of my family had ever done any- 
thing of the kind.” 

“I don’t know about that; but I’ve done it, 
I can tell you, and better men than I,” said 
the doctor. 

I only mean that she made such a point of 
it ; she would think I had done it expressly to 
vex her, or she might come wherever I was, 
and try to make me leave it.” 

“ So she might,” said the cleric, and laugh- 
ed a little to himself, for he knew her, and 
fancied a scene, but what can you do ? I 
think you must in fact, and the best way will 
be to tell her nothing about it. She has cut 
you, you know, for the present, and — and you 
need not, if you think it would vex her, go in 
your own name, do you see? We’ 11 call you 
Mr. Herbert, you’re descended maternally, you 
know, from Herberts ; now — not for a mo- 
ment, now, just hear me out ; there shall be no 
deception, of course. IHl tell them that for 
certain family reasons I have advised you to 
take that measure. I’ll take it all on myself, 
and say all I think of /ou, and know of you, 
and I saw, just now, in this very paper, some- 
thing that I think would answer ^ very nicely. 
Yes, yes, I’ll make it all quite straight and 
easy. But you must do as I say.” 

The kind little gentleman was thinking 
that eccentric and fierce Miss Perfect might 
never forgive his engaging himself as a tutor, 
without at least that disguise, and he looked 
forward as he murmured varium et mutahile 
semper^ to a much carrier, redintegratio amoris 
than William dreamed of. 

“ It’s unlucky her having made a point of 
it. But what is the poor fellow to do ? She 
must not, however, be offended more than we 
can help, and that will show a wish as far as 
was practicable, to consult her feelings.” 

Doctor Sprague looked along a column in 
the Times^ and said he, after his scrutiny — 

“ I think there’s just one of these you’ll 
like — say which you prefer, and I’ll tell you if 
it’s the one I think.” 

So William conned over the advertisements, 
and, in Aunt Dinah’s phrase, put on his con- 
sidering cap, and having pondered a good 
while, This one, I think ?” he half decided 
and half inquired. 

“ The very thing !” said Dr. Sprague, cheer- 
ily. “ One boy — country-house — just the 
thing ; he’ll be in his bed early, you know, 
and you can take your books and write away 


till twelve at night ; and now yon had better 
drop them a line — or stay. I’ll do it ; you can’t 
sign your name, you know.” 

So, communications being opened, in a day 
or two it turned out that Doctor Sprague knew 
the gentleman who advertised. It was a very 
old and long interrupted acquaintance. 

He’s a quiet, kind fellow, and Kincton 
Hall, they say, a pretty place and old. I’ll 
write to Knox.” 

The Knoxes of Kincton Hall William had 
heard Trevor occasionally mention, but tried 
in vain to recollect what he used to say of 
them ; six months, however, was no great ven- 
ture, and the experiment could hardly break 
down very badly in that time. 

Maubray, your cousin, has quarrelled with 
his father, you heard ?” 

^‘No.” 

“ Oh, yes, just about the time when you left 
this — a few days ago. Young Maubray has 
some little property from his mother, and 
chooses to take his own way ; and Sir Eichard 
was in here with me yesterday, very angry 
and violent, poor man, and vows (the doctor 
would not say “ swears ” which would have 
described the procedure more accurately) 
he’ll cut him off with a shilling j but that’s ail 
moonshine. The estates are under settle- 
ment, and the young fellow knows it, and 
that’s at the bottom of his independence ; and 
he’s gone abroad, I believe, to amuse himself : 
and he has been no credit to his college, from 
all I hear.” 


o- 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

KINCTON HALL. 

In the parlour of Kincton Hall the family 
were assembled at breakfast ; Mrs. Kincton 
Knox dispensed tea and coffee in a queenlike 
way, hardly called for, seeing that her hus- 
band, daughter, and little son, formed the en- 
tire party. 

Mrs. Kincton Knox was what some people 
call a clever woman — ^that is, she did nearly 
everything with an object, but somehow she 
had not suceeeded. Mr. Kincton Knox was 
not Deputy Lieutenant or a Member for his 
county. Her daughter Clara — ^with blue eyes 
and golden hair — a handsome girl, now lean- 
ing back in her chair and looking listlessly 
through the window across the table — was ad- 
mitted confidentially to be near fiye-and- 
twenty, and was in fact past eight-and-twenty, 
and unmarried still. There was not that in- 
timacy between the Croydon family and the 
Kincton Knoxes for which she had laboured 
so cleverly and industriously. She was not 
among the patronesses, and only one of the 
committee, of the great county ball, at which 
the Prince figured, and which, on the plea of 
illness, she had with proper dignity declined 
attending. She blamed her daughter, she 


40 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


blamed her hnsband, she blamed the envy and 
combination of neighbours, for her failures. 

.. There was nothing that the wit and industry 
of 'woman could do she had not done. She 
was the best bred and most far-seeing woman 
in the country round, radiant with a grave 
sort of fascination, always in supreme com- 
mand, never for a moment losing sight of her 
object, yet, great or small, somehow never 
compassing it — a Vanderdecken, thwarted in- 
visibly, and her crew growing old around her. 
Was ever admirable woman so persecuted by 
fortune? 

Perhaps if the accomplished Mrs. Kincton 
Knox had been some twenty years before be- 
reft of her brilliant intellect and shut up in a 
remote mad-house, or consigned under an un- 
exceptionable epitaph to the family vault in 
Smolderton Church, the afflicted family might 
have prospered ; for Miss Clara was really 
pretty, and could draw and sing better than 
most well-married young ladies of her rank in 
life. And, though he was not very bright, no 
man was more inoffensive and genial than 
portly old Kincton Knox, if only she had per- 
mitted his popularity to grow, and had left 
him and his belongings a little to nature. 

“Hollo! what are those fellows doing?” 
exclaimed Kincton Knox, attracted by a sound 
of chopping from without. “ Hollo 1 ho !” 
and with his arms extended, he made a rush 
at the window, which he threw up, shouting, 
“ Hollo there 1 stop that.” 

A man stood erect with an axe in his hand, 
by the trunk of one of the great walnut trees. 

“ What the devil are you doing, sir, cutting 
down my tree ?” cried the old gentleman, his 
handsome face flushed with wrath, and his 
silver fork, with a bit of ham on the end of it, 
grasped fiercely in his left hand. “ Who the 
devil ordered you, sir, to — ^to how — ^pow — cut 
down my trees, sir ?” 

“ I’ve spoken to you till I’m tired, Kincton, 

• about that tree ; it buries us in perfect damp 
and darkness, and P’ — ^began the dignified 
lady in purple silk, and lace coif. 

“ Don’t you presume, sir, to cut down a tree 
of mine without my orders ; don’t you dare, 
sir; don’t — don’t attempt it, sir, or it will.be 
worse for you ; take that hatchet away, sir, 
and send Wall the gardener here this moment, 
sir, to see what can be done, and Pve a mind 
to send you about your business, and egad if 
I find you’ve injured the tree, I will too, sir ; 
send him this moment ; get out of my sight, 
sir. 

It was not more than once in two years that 
Mr. Kincton Knox broke out in that way, and 
only on extraordinary and sudden provocation. 
He returned to the table and sat down in his 
chair, having shut the windows with an un- 

• necessary display of physical force. His 
countenance was red and lowering, and his 
eyes still staring and blinking rapidly, and his 
white waistcoat heaving, and even the brass 
buttons of his blue coat uneasy. You might 
have observed the tremulous shuffle of his 
fingers as his fist rested on the tablecloth, 
while he gazed through the window and mut- 


tered and puffed to the agitation of his chops. 
Upon such unusual occasions Mrs. Kincton 
Knox was a little alarmed and even crest- 
fallen. It was a sudden accession of mania in 
an animal usually perfectly docile, and there- 
fore it was startling, and called not for chas- 
tisement so much as management. 

“ I may be permitted to mention, now that 
there’s a little quiet, that it was I who ordered 
that tree to be removed — of course if it makes 
you violent to take it down, let it stand ; let 
the house be darkened and the inhabitants 
take the ague. I’ve simply endeavoured to do 
what I thought right. I’m never thanked ; 
I don’t expect thanks; I hope I know my 
duty, and do it from higher motives. But 
this I know, and you’ll sec it when I’m in my 
grave, that if it were not for me, every single 
individual thing connected with you and 
yours would be in a state of the most inextri- 
cable neglect and confusion, and I may say 
ruin.” 

“I object to the place being denuded. 
There is not much in that,” blustered Mr. 
Kincton Knox, plaintively. 

He was now subsiding ; and she, availing 
herself of this frame of mind, proceeded with 
even more force, and’ dignity, till interrupted 
by Miss Clara, who observed serenely — 

“ Mamma, that greedy little pig will choke 
himself with apricot-stqjies, if you allow 
him.” 

Master Howard Seymore Knox — a stunted 
and billions boy — scowled at Miss Clara, with 
muddy eyes, his mouth being too full for con- 
venient articulation, and clutched his plate, 
with both hands. 

“ My precious rosebud, be careful,” remon- 
strated his mamma with gentle fervour. 

Stooping over his plate, a clatter , of fruit- 
stones was heard upon it, and Master Howard 
ejaculated — 

“ You lie, you do, you tell-tale-tit 1” 

“ Oh ! my love,” remonstrated Mrs. Kinc- 
ton. 

“ Briggs shall box your ears for that, my 
fine fellow,” said Miss Clara. 

“ There’s another cram I I’d like to see 
her,” retorted the youth. 

“ Greedy little beast I” observed Clara. 

“ Clara, my love 1” suggested her mamma. 

“ Not half so greedy as you. Who took the 
woodcock pie up to her bedroom ? Ah-ha 1” 
vociferated the young gentleman. 

“Now I’ll do it myself!” exclaimed the 
languid young lady, rising with sudden energy. 

“ I’ll fling these in your ugly face, if you 
come near me,” cried he, jumping up, and 
behind his mamma’s chair, with a knife and . 
fork in his right hand, covered with Savory 
pie. * 

“ I won’t have this ; I won’t have it,” said 
Mrs. Kincton Knox with peremptory dignity. 

“ Howard, be quiet, my love ; Clara, sit down.” 

“ The im'p I he’ll never stop till he murders 
some one,” exclaimed Miss Clara, with intense 
feeling, as she sat down with brilliant cheeks 
and flashing eyes. “ Look at him, mamma ; 
he’s saying ha-ha, and shaking his knife and 


ALL IN THE DAKK. 


41 


fork at me, the little marderer j and the liar !” 

^ Clara, I insist interposed Mrs. Kincton 
Knox. 

“Yes, I do believe he’s an actual devil,” 
persisted the young lady. 

“I won't have this,” continued the mater 
familias^ peremptorily. 

“Ha, ha I” whispered the imp obliquely, 
from the other side, wagging his head, and 
clutching his knife and fork, while he touched 
the points of the fork, with a horrid signifi- 
cance, with the finger tip of his disengaged 
hand. 

Miss Clara raised her hand, and opened her 
mouth to exclaim; but at this moment the 
servant entered with the letters, and the cur- 
rent of conversation was diverted. 


o 


CHAPTER XXIY. 
william is summoned. 

Mrs. Kincton Knox had no less than seven 
notes and letters, her husband one, and Miss 
Clara two crossed manuscripts, which en- 
grossed her speedily ; and, possibly, these 
figures would have indicated pretty accu- 
rately their relative influence in the house- 
hold. 

The matron deigned no account of her letters 
to mortal, and exacted from all others an 
habitual candour in this respect, and so much 
had it grown to be a matter of conscience 
with her husband, that I don’t think he could 
have slept in his bed if ho had failed to sub- 
mit any one such communication to her in- 
spection. 

Her own were now neatly arranged, one 
over the other, like the discarded cards in 
piquet, beside her plate. 

“Well, my dear, what is it?” she said to 
her husband, accompanying the inquiry with 
a little motion, like a minaturo beckoning, of 
her fore-finger. 

“ Something about the Times — the tutor,” he 
began. 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, interrupt- 
ing, with a warning nod and an awful look, 
and a glance at Master Howard, who was 
fortunately so busy in tying bits of paper, in 
imitation of a kite-tail, on the string of the 
window-blind, that he had heard nothing. 

“ Oh 1” murmured Mr. Kincton Knox, pro- 
longing the interjection softly — ^lie was accus- 
tomed, with a- guilty and abject submission, 
every now and then, to receive that sort of 
awful signal — “ I did not know.” And he 
whistled a little through his round mouth, 
r.nd looked a little frightened, and ashamed 
of his clumsiness, though he seldom knew in 
what exactly the danger consisted. 

“ Howard, my precious rosebud, 'I’ve told 
Rogers he may fire the pistol for you three 
times this morning *, he says he has powder, 
and you may go now.” 


So away ran Master Howard to plaguo 
Roger the footman ; and Mrs. Kincton Knox 
said with a nod — 

“ NowJ^ 

“ Here,” said he, mildly pushing the letter 
towards her, “ you'll understand it better ;” 
and she read aloud — 

“ My dear Sir, — I venture to renew an old 
acquaintance at the instance of a young friend 
of mine, who has seen your advertisement in 
the Times, for a tutor, and desires to accept 
that office. He is capitally qualified, as your 
advertisement says, ^to prepare a boy of 
twelve for school.’ He is a fair scholar, and Co 
gentleman, and for his character, I can under- 
take to answer almost as for my own. I feel 
pretty certain that you will like him. There 
is but one condition, to which I am sure you 
will not object.” 

“He shan’t smoke or sit up all night, if 
that’s it,” said the lady loftily, by way of 
gloss. 

“ He and I agree,” she read on, “ that he 
should be received under the name of William 
Herbert.” This paragraph she read twice 
over very deliberately. “As I have pressed 
upon him, for reasons which, you will readily 
believe, are not dishonourable — ^what strikes 
me as a strong objection to his accepting the 
position you offer under his own name.” 

“ That’s very odd, it strikes me. Why 
shouldn’t he tell his name ?” observed Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, with grim curiosity. 

“ I dare say he’s a low person, and his name 
is not pretty,” sneered Miss Clara, carelessly. 

“Who is that Mr. Edmund — Edward 
Sprague ?” inquired the matron. 

Mr. Kincton Knox testified to his character. 

“ But, just stop a moment — it is very odd. 
Why should ho be, if he is a fit person to be 
received at Kincton — why should he be 
ashamed of his name ?” repeated Mrs. Kincton 
Knox, grandly. 

“ Perhaps it may be as well to let it drop,” 
suggested Kincton Knox, in the hope that he 
was enticipating his wife’s wishes. But that , 
grave lady raised her nose at his remark, and 
turned away, not vouchsafing an answer. 

“ Of course ; I don’t say it is not all quite 
proper ; but say what you may, and take it 
how you please, it is a very odd condition.” 

There was a i)ause here. Clara did not care 
enough to engage in the discussion, and old 
Kincton Knox rumpled his Times uneasily, 
not knowing whether he was called on for a 
solution, and not cariAg to hazard one, for he 
was seldom lucky. 

“Well, and what do you propose to do?” 
demanded his wife, who thus sometimes cruelly 
forced the peaceable old gentleman into de- 
bate. 

“ Why,” said he, cautiously, “ whatever you 
think best, my dear.” 

“ I’m not likely to receive much assistance 
from you, Mr. Kincton Knox. However, pro- 
vided I’m not blamed for doing. my best, and 
my servants stormed at for obeying me ” 

Mr. Kincton Knox glanced unconsciously 
and penitently at the walnut tree. 


42 


ALL IN THE DAEK 


I suppose, as something must he done, and 
nothing will be done otherwise, I may as well 
take this trouble and responsibility upon my- 
self.’^ 

“ And what am I to say to Sprague V mur- 
mured Mr. Kincton Knox. 

I suppose the young man had better come. 
Mr. Sprague, you say, is a proper person, and 
I suppose we may rely upon what he says. I 
hope so, I’m sure, and if he does not answer, 
why he can go about his business.” 

In due course, therefore, Mr. Kincton Knox’s 
reply, which he had previougly read aloud to 
his wife, was despatched . 

So Fate had resolved that 'William Maubray 
should visit Kincton Hall, while Aunt Dinah 
was daily expecting the return of her prodigal 
to Gilroyd. 

“ If I don’t hear from William Maubray be- 
fore Sunday, I shall write on Monday morning 
to Doctor Sprague ” said she, after a long silence 
at breakfast. 

She looked at Miss Violet, but the young 
lady was looking on the cloth, and with her 
finger-tips stirring hither and thither some 
flowers that lay there — not her eyes, only her 
long eyelashes were visible — and the invita- 
tion to say something conveyed in Aunt 
Dinah’s glance, miscarried. 

“ And I think it very strange — not what I 
should have expected from William — ^that he 
has not written. I don’t mean an apology, 
that’s a matter between his own conscience 
and his Maker. I mean some little inquiry. 
Affection of course we cannot command, but 
respect and courtesy we may.” 

I had thought better of William. I think 
Doctor Sprague will be surprised,” she resumed. 

I did not think he could have parted on the 
terms he did, and never written a line after, 
for nearly a week. He seems to me quite a — 
a changed person.” 

“ Just at that age,” said Miss Violet, in a low 
tone, looking nearer to her flowers, and grow- 
ing interested in a rose whose rumpled leaves 
she was adjusting with her finger-tips, “ some 
one says — I read it lately somewhere — I for- 
get who — they grow weary of home, and home 
faces, and want change and adventure, that is 
action and danger, of one kind or another, 
what they are sent into the world for, I suppose 
— ^that and liberty.” She spoke very low, as 
if to her flowers, and when she ceased. Miss 
Perfect listened still, and finding she had no 
more to say. Aunt Dinah added — 

“ And a wise business they make of it — 
fifty blunders in as many days, and begin look- 
ing out for wives before they Imow how to earn 
a guinea.” 

Miss Violet looked up and smiled, and pop- 
ped her nose gently into the water glass beside 
her, and went on adjusting her flowers. 

Wives, indeed! Yes — just what his poor 
father did before him, and his grandfather, old 
Sir Everard, he was married privately, at 
twenty 1 It runs in the blood, my dear, like 
gaming or drinldng ; and the next I shall hear 
of William, I dare say, will be a note to ask 
my blessing on his marriage I” 


Again Miss • Violet laughed softly, and 
smiling for a moment, with a pretty slip of 
verbena in her fingers, she added it to the 
growing bouquet in the glass. , 

“ You may laugh, my dear, but it is what 
I’m afraid of. I assure you I am serious.” 

“But it may turn out very happy, or very 
splendid, you know; he may meet with a 
young lady more foolish than himself, and with 
a great dot.” 

“ No, my dear, he’s a soft romantic goose, 
and I really think if it were not imprudent, 
the romance would lose all its attraction. I 
tell you, it runs in the family, and he’s not a 
bit wiser than his father, or his grandfather 
before him.” 

“ This will never do without a bit of blue. 
May I run out to the flowers ?” 

“ Certainly, dear ;” and Aunt Dinah peered 
through her spectacles at the half made-up 
bouquet in the glass. “ Yes, it does — it wants 
blue. Isn’t there blue verbena?” 

And away ran Violet, and her pretty figure 
and gay face flitted before the windows in the 
early sun among the flowers. And Aunt 
Dinah looked for a moment with a smile and 
a sigh. Perhaps she was thinking of the 
time when it was morning sun and opening 
flowers for her, and young fellows — one of 
whom, long dead in India, was still a dream 
for her — used to talk their foolish flatteries, 
that sounded now like muffled music in the 
distant air ; and she looked down dreamily on 
the back of her slim wrinkled hand that lay 
on the table. 


I— o- 


CHAPTER XXV. 

W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES. 

When, a few days later, Maubray, who was 
a shy man, stepped down from his fly, as the 
vehicle which conveyed him from the neigh- 
bouring railway station, though it more re- 
sembled a snail, was called, and found himself 
under the cold, grey, Ionic colonnade which 
received people at Kincton with a dismal and 
exclusive hospitality, his heart sank, a chilly 
shadow descended upon him, and in the silent 
panic of the moment he felt tempted to re- 
enter the vehicle, return to Dr. Sprague, and 
confess that he wanted nerve to fulfil his en- 
gagement. 

William was conducted through the hall, 
up the great stairs, over a sombre loboy and 
up a second and narrower stair, to a gallery 
cold and dim, from which his room-door 
opened. Upon this floor the quietude of de- 
sertion reigned. He looked from his low 
window into a small court-yard, formed on 
three sides by the house itself, and on the 
fourth b/ a rear of the offices, behind which a 
thick mass of autumnal foliage showed itself 
in the distance. The circumscribed view 
was dreary and formal. How different from 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


43 


homely, genial old Gilroydl Bat that was a 
dream, and this reality ; and so his +oilet pro- 
ceeded rapidly, and he descended, looking by 
no means like a threadbare domine, but hand- 
some and presentable, and with the refine- 
ment of his good birth and breeding in his 
features. 

Can I see Mr. Kincton Knox ?” inquired 
William of the servant in the hall. 

Idl inquire, sir.” 

And William was left in that tesselated and 
pillared apartment, while the servant entered 
hi§ master’s study, and speedily returning, 
informed him with a superciliousness which 
was new to William, and decidedly uncom- 
fortable, that he might enter. 

It was a handsome study, stored with hand- 
some books and sundry busts, one of the de- 
ceased Horace Kincton Knox, in porphyry, 
received William on a pedestal near the door, 
and looked alarmingly like a case of small- 
pox. 

The present master of Kincton, portly, 
handsome, though threescore years had not 
passed over him in vain, with a bald forehead, 
and a sort of simple dignity, as William 
fancied, rose smiling, and came to meet him 
with his hand extended, and with a cordial 
glow about him, as though he had known him 
for years. 

“ You are very welcome, sir — ^very happy to 
see you — very happy to make your acquaint- 
ance ; and how is my good friend, Sprague ? 
a very old friend of mine, though we have 
dropped out of sight a good deal ; and I cor- 
respond very little — so — so we loose sight of 
one another ; but he’s well, and doing well too ? 
I’m very happy to see you.” 

There was something homely and reassuring 
in this kind old man, which was very pleasant 
to William. 

^‘Dr. Sprague was very well when I left 
him, and gave me this note, sir, for you,” re- 
plied William, presenting it to his host, who 
took it, and glanced at it as they stood on the 
hearthrug together ; and as he read it he ob- 
served : 

“ Very cold the weather is. I don’t re- 
member — very cold — at this time of year. 
You’ve had a cold drive. Not had luncheon 
yet ? Two o’clock, you know : yes, about a 
quarter to two now, in a quarter of an hour.” 

He had by this time laid Doctor Sprague’s 
note on the table. 

“ And the little boy, sir, where is he ?” 
suggested William. 

‘‘ Oh, oh I little Howard I I — I suppose we 
shall see him at lunch.” 

I should wish very much to hear any 
directions or suggestions, and to know some- 
thing as to what he has been doing,” said 
William. 

Very true — very right, Mr. — Mr.,” and 
old Kincton Knox groped towards the note, 
intending to refresh his memory. 

“ Herbert^' interposed William, colouring a 
little. Doctor Sprague made a point of the 
name, and I believe, sir, wrote particularly 
about it.” 


“ Quite so — very right, sir. It is Herbert, 
I quite approve — quite, sir. He did — perfectly 
explicit j and about the boy. The fact is, Mr. 
Herbert, I leave him very much to his mother. 
She can tell you much more what he has been 
doing — ^very young, you know, still — and — 
and she’ll tell you all about him ; and I hope^ 
you will be happy, I’m sure ; and don’t fail to 
tell the people whatever j^ou want, you know ; 
I live very much to myself — quiet room this 
— fond of books, I suppose ? Well, I shall bo 
always very happy to see you here ; in fact it 
will be a great pleasure. We may as well sit 
down, do, pray ; for you know ladies don’t 
care very much for this sort of reading and 
he waved his short white hand towards the 
bookcases ; ‘‘and sometimes one feels a little 
lonely ; and Sprague tells me you have a turn 
for .reading.” 

The door opened, and a servant announced 
that Mrs. Kincton Knox wished to see Mr. 
Herbert in the schoolroom. 

“Ho!” exclaimed the master of Kincton, 
with a grave countenance and a promptitude 
which savoured of discipline. “ Well, at 
lunch I ^hall see you, Mr. Herbert ; we’ll 
meet in ten minutes or so; and, Edward, 
you’ll show Mr. — a — Herbert to the school- 
room.” 

Across the hall was he conaucted, to a room 
in which were some sporting joints and two 
dingy oil paintings of “ sometime,” favourite 
hunters who sniffed and heard their last of 
field and bugle a century ago. There were 
also some guns and fishing rods ; and, througli 
this to the school-room, where Mrs. Kincton 
Knox, in purple silk, with a turban on her 
head, loomed awfully before him as he entered, 
and made him a slight and rustling courtesy, 
which rather warned him off than greeted 
him. 

“Mr. — a — a — ^Herbert?’ said the lady of 
the prominent black eyes, with a lofty inquiry. 

“I — a — Doctor Sprague — told me he had 
written very fully about the — ^the,” stammered 
William, who began to feel- like a concealed 
ticket-of-leave man. 

“ The name^ yesj^ said Mrs. Kincton Knox, 
looking steadily on him, and then ensued a 
silence. 

“He informed me that having explained 
the circumstances fully, and also that it was 
his not my particular wish, you had seen no 
difficulty in it,” said William. 

“Difficulty — none — there can be no diffi- 
culty when there’s no constraint,” replied 
Mrs. Kincton Knox, laying clown a metaphy- 
sical axiom, as she sometimes did, which 
William could not quite clearly understand ; 
“ and although I have always maintained the 
position that where there’s mystery there is 
guilt; yet feeling a confidence in Doctor 
Sprague’s character and profession — of both 
of which Mr. Kincton Knox happened to 
know something — we have endeavoured to 
overcome our objection.” 

“ I understood there was no objection,” 
interposed William, flushing 

“Pray allow me. An objection satisfied is 


44 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


not necessarily an objection foregone ; in this 
case, however, you are at liberty to treat it in 
that light. We waive our objection, and we 
have every reasonable confidence that we 
shall not have occasion to repent having 
done so,”! 

This was spoken graciously and conde- 
scendingly, for she thought that a person who 
looked so decidedly like a gentleman would 
rather conduce to the dignity of the Kincton 

household.” But it did not seem to strike 
the* young man at all in that light. 

You are about, Mr. — a — sir, to undertake 
the charge of my precious child — sensitiYe, 
delicate — too delicate and too impressionable 
to have permitted his making all the progress 
I could have wished in the rudiments — you 
understand — of future — a — a — education and 
accomplishment ; a little wild, but full of affec- 
tion, and — and of natural docility — but still 
unused — from the causes I have mentioned — 
to restraint or coercion. Your duty will 
therefore be a delicate one. I need not say 
that nothing of the nature of punishment will 
be permitted or endured. You will bear in 
mind the illustration of the sacred writer — 
the sun and the tempest, and the traveller’s 
cloak” At this point William coughed 
slightly into his handkerchief. Mild influ- 
ences, in my mind, effect more than ever was 
accomplished by harshness ; and such is the 
system under which our precious Howard 
must learn. Am I understood ?” 

“ Quite,” said William. “ I should not my- 
self undertake the task of punishing any 
child ; but I’m afraid, unless the parents are 
prepared to pull him up now and then, for idle- 
ness or inattention, you will find his progress 
far from satisfactory.” 

“ That is a question quite for tliemj'* said 
Mrs. Kincton Knox, in her queen-like way. 

William bowed. 

What I want chiefly in a person — in a 
gentlemen in your capacity — is that he shall 
begin to — a — my precious child shall begin to 
associate with a superior mind, and imbibe 
rather by contact than task-work. Do I make 
myself clear? The — a — the — you know, of 
course the kind of thing.” 

William did not apprehend quite so clearly 
the nature of his duties as he would have 
v/ished, but said nothing. 

You and he will breakfast with us at half- 
past nine. I regret I cannot ask you to lunch. 
But you and Howard will dine at three o’clock 
in this room, and have tea — and — and any 
little thing that Mrs. Ridgeway, the house- 
keeper, may send you at six. The boy goes 
to his bed at half-past nine, and I conclude 
you already know your own room.” 

And where is your-^my pupil ?” inquired 
William. 

Mrs. Kincton Knox rang the bell. “He 
shall be with you presently, Mr. Herbert^ and 
you will please to bear in mind that the dear- 
boy’s health is just at present our first object, 
and that he must not be pressed to study more 
than he wishes.” 

Master Howard Seymour Knox entered, 


eyeing the tutor -suspiciously and loweringly. 
He had, perhaps, heard confidently of possi- 
ble callings, and viewed William Maubray 
with a sheepish kind of malevolence. 


o- 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WILLIAM MAUBRAY BEGINS TO EXCITE AN 
INTEREST. 

There was positively nothing to interest Wil- 
liam Maubray in his pupil, and a great deal to 
irritate and disgust him. What can be more 
sterile than the nature of a selfish child spoil- 
ed by indulgence. It was one comfort, how- 
ever, that he was not expected to accomplish 
a miracle, that is, to teach a boy who had the 
option of learning nothing, and often for two 
hours or more at a time he was relieved alto- 
gether of his company, when he went out to 
drive Mrs. Kincton Knox, or to have a ride 
on his pony with the groom 

But the monotony and .solitude grew dread- 
ful. At breakfast he sat with, but not of, the 
party. Except, indeed, the kindly old gentle- 
man, who lived in a monastic seclusion among 
his books and trees and flowers, and to whom 
Willitim’s occasional company was a cheer 
and a happiness, no one at the breakfast table 
seemed, after the first slight and silent salu- 
tation was over, conscious of his presence. 

Miss Clara and her mamma talked of mat- 
ters that interested them — ^their neighbours, 
and the fashions, and the , peerage, and even 
the furniture, as if William were a picture, or 
nothing at all. 

He could not fail, notwithstanding his ex- 
clusion, to perceive that Clara was handsome 
— ^very handsome, indeed — quite a brilliant 
blonde, and wuth that confident and haughty 
air of — was it fashion — was it blood — was it 
the habit of being adored with incense and all 
sorts of worship — he could not tell. He only 
knew that it became her, and helped to over- 
power him. 

We are not to suppose that all this time 
female curiosity at Kincton slumbered and 
slept over such a problem as William Maubray. 
Treat him how they might in his presence, he 
was a topic both of interest and inquiry in his. 
absence. The few letters that reached him 
afforded no clue ; they were addressed with 
uniform exactitude to “ W. Herbert, Esq.” 
The books he had brought with him to 
Kincton contributed no light ; for William had 
not inscribed his name in his books. Miss 
Clara’s maid, who was intensely interested in 
the investigation, brought a pocket-handker- 
chief of the tutor’s to her' young mistress’s 
room, where both she and her mamma conned 
over the initials “ W.M.” in a small but florid 
arabesque in the corner. It was, no doubt, a 
condescension such as William ought to have 
been proud of. 

“ There’s five on ^em so. Miss — ^the rest 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


45 


unmarked, and nothing else marked, except 
three old shirts.” 

‘‘ Why, you goose, what can I care ?” laughed 
Miss Clara. ‘‘ I’m not his nurse, or his seam- 
stress. Take it away this moment. What a 
pretty discussion !” 

This “ W.M.,” however, was not without its 
interest, and tAvo days later the maid exhibited 
an old copy of Feltham’s Resolves,” 
abstracted from William’s little file of books, 
with “ William Martin” neatly inscribed on 
the fly-leaf, but in a hand so quaint and 
ancient, and with ink so brown, that even 
Miss Clara pooh-poohed” the discovery. 

Noav, the young lady could not help in some 
sort requiting William’s secret estimate of her 
good looks. She thought the young tutor 
decidedly handsome ; in fact, there could be 
no question about it. He was well formed, 
too ; and with that undefinable grace Avhich 
people are apt to refer to gentle blood. 
There was, moreover, a certain refinement and 
sensitiveness in his countenance utterly in- 
compatible with the idea of vulgarity of any 
kind. Noav, a tutor might be anything — a 
decayed nobleman or a chandler’s son. Was 
not Louis Philippe an usher in a school ? All 
you were to assume was that he could teach 
Latin grammar, and was in want of money. 

There were some little signs of superfluity, 
too, in William’s valuables. The butler, who 
was a native of Geneva, presuming on «Wil- 
liam’s tutorship, had, on a fitting opportunity, 
begged leave to inspect his Avatch, and ap- 
praised it at twenty guineas among his felloAV- 
serA^ants. This and the massive gold chain, 
vrhich also excited his admiration, Avere gifts 
from Miss Perfect, as was also that glorious 
dressing-case, presented on his attaining his 
tAventy-first year, resplendent with gold and 
mother-o’ pearl, and which the same com- 
petent authority A^alucd at seventy guineas at 
least. Now, those things, though little, and 
some not at all seen outside the walls of his 
own little bedroom, emitted, like the concealed 
relics of a saint, so to speak, a glory and a 
fragrance which permeated the house. It 
Avas quite impossible, then, that want of 
money had driven this Mr. Herbert, or Avho- 
cver he was, into his present position. 

On the plate on top of this resplendent 
dressing-case the maid, who, fired by Monsieur 
Drouet’s report, had visited the treasure clan- 
destinely, were inscribed, as she reported to 
Miss Clara, the same mysterious characters 
‘•W.M.” 

I like the old gentleman — kind old man. 
What Avonderful tilings books are ; nourish- 
ment for all sorts and sizes of minds — poor old 
Mr. Kincton Knox. How he reads and posi- 
tively enjoys them. Yet the best things in 
them might just as Avell never have been 
vrritten or thought, for any real perception he 
has of them ! A kind man ; I like him so 
much ; I feel so obliged to him. And Avhat 
ill-bred, insuppoitable persons the ladies are ; 
that pomiAous, strong-Avilled, stupid old avo- 
man ; her magnificence positively stifles me ; 
and the young lady, how disagreeably hand- 


some she is, and how impertinent. It must 
be a love of inflicting pain and degradation — 
hoAV cruel, hoAv shabby, how low I” 

Such was William’s review of the adult 
members of the family among whom he had 
come to reside, as he lay down with his fair 
hair on the pillow, and his sad eyes long open 
in the dark, looking at scenes and forms of 
the past, crossed and troubled by coming sor- 
rows and apprehensions. 

The ice and snow spread crisp and hard, 
and the frosty sun has little heat, but yet the 
thaw will come. And the radiance emitted 
by William’ s dressing-case, watch and other 
glories, began imperceptibly to tell upon the 
frozen rigour of his first reception. There 
was a word now and then about the Aveather, 
he was asked more graciously to take some 
morp tea. The ladies sometimes smiled Avhen 
they thus invited him, and Miss Clara began 
to take an interest in her brother, and even 
one day in her riding habit, in Avhich she 
looked particularly well, looked into the 
school-room for a moment, just to give Howard 
a little box of bon-bons she had promised him 
before she went out. 

“ May I, Mr. Herbert ?” asked Miss Clara, 
Avith that smile which no one could resist. 

Certainly,” said William, bowing very 
low, and she thought there Avas something 
haughty in his grave humility. 

So she thanked him, smiling more, and 
made her present to Howard, who broke out 
Avith — 

This ain’t the one you said. You’ve been 
and eat it, you greedy !” 

“ Now /” pleaded Miss Clara, whose fingers 
tingled to box his ears, though she prolonged 
the word in her most coaxing tone, “ Howard ! 
Howard I could you? your own poor Clara! 
You shall come up and have any tAvo others 
you like best, when I come back, if Mr. Her- 
bert alloAvs it,” and Vvith a smile, and a light 
kiss on the boy’s forehead, who plunged away 
from her muttering, that brilliant vision van- 
ished, leaving William standing for a moment 
wondering, and thinking hoAV graceful and 
pretty she looked in that becoming get-up. 

Well,” thought William, that night com- 
punctiously and pleased, I believe I have 
done them an injustice. I forgot that I was 
a total stranger, and expected a reception dif- 
ferent perhaps from what I was entitled to. 
But this perhaps is better ; people whose lik- 
ings and confidence move slowly, and whose 
friendship bestoAved gradually is not suddenly 
AvithdraAvn.” 

And so he went to sleep more happily. 




CHAPTER XXYH. 

mOM KINCTON TO GILROTD. 

A MONTH passed away with little change. 
Thanks to the every explicit injunction, con- 


46 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


stantly repeated, to teach his pupil no more i 
than his pupil wished to learn, William Mau- 
hray got on wonderfully well with that ill- 
conditioned brat, who was “ the hope of the 
house of Kincton Knox.” Still, notwithstand- 
ing this, and all those flattering evidences of 
growing favour vouchsafed by the ladies of 
the mansion, the weeks were very long. Miss 
Clara, although now and then she beamed on 
him with a transient light, yet never actually 
conversed ; and magnificent and dreary Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, whether gracious or repellant, 
was nearly equally insupportable. 

Every time he walked out, and pausing on 
the upland, looked loug and mournfully in 
the direction in which he fancied lay Gilroyd, 
with its sunset blush of old red brick, its roses, 
deep green sward, and chestnut shadows, a 
sort of home sickness overcame him. Beyond 
that horizon there was affection, and in old 
times the never-failing welcome, the smile, 
the cordial sympathy, and the liberty that 
knew not Kincton. And with a pain and 
swelling at his heart came the scene of his ex- 
pulsion — a mute, hurried leave-taking ; the 
clang of the iron gate, never to open more for 
him ; and Aunt Dinah’s fierce and cruel gaze, 
like the sword of fire in the way, forbidding 
his return. 

How was it with fierce and cruel Aunt 
Dinah all this time,? “ The boy will come to 
his senses,” she was constantly repeating to 
herself, as she closed her book from which her 
thoughts had been straying, upon her finger, 
with a short sigh and a proud look. Or when 
she looked up from her work, with the same 
little sigh, on the pretty flower landscape, 
with its back ground of foliage, seen so sun- 
nily through the jessamine and rose clusters, 
“ Time will bring him to reason ; a little time, 
a very little time.” 

But when a little time passed away, and no 
signs came with the next week of returning 
reason. Aunt Dinah grew fiercer and more 
warlike. “ Sulky and obstinate ! Ungrateful 
young man! Well, so be it. We’ll see who 
can maintain silence longest. Let him cool ; 
let him take his own time. I won’t hurry 
him, I promise him,” and so forth. 

But another week passed, still in silence, 
and Miss Perfect ^‘presented her compliments 
to Dr. Sprague, and begged to inquire whether 
her nephew, William Maubray, had returned 
to Cambridge a little more than a fortnight 
since. Not that she had the least right or 
wish to enquire minutely henceforward into 
his plans, place of residence, pursuits, or as- 
sociates ; but simply that having for so long a 
time taken an interest in him, and, as she hoped, 
been of some little use to him — if supporting 
and educating him entirely might so be deemed 
— she thought she had a claim to be informed 
how he was, whether well or ill. Beyond that 
— she begged to be excused from asking, and 
requested that Doctor Sprague would be so 
good as to confine himself to answering that 
simple inquiry, and abstain from mentioning 
anything further about William Maubray.” 

In reply to this, Doctor Sprague begged 


[ to inform Miss Perfect that when he last saw 
him, about ten days since, when he left Cam-**^ 
bridge, her nephew, William Maubray, was ^ 
very well. On his return from his recent visit 
to Gilroyd, he had remained but a week in his 
rooms, and had then left to prosecute a ifian 
by which he hoped to succeed in laying a 
foundation for -future efforts and success. 
Doctor Sprague was not very well, and had 
been ordered to take a little exceptional holiday 
abroad, and Miss Perfect’s letter had reached 
him just on the eve of his departure for the* 
Continent. 

Unobserved, almost to herself, there had 
been before Aunt Dinah’s eyes, as she read her 
book, or worked at her crochet, or looked out 
wearied on the lawn, a little vignette, repre- 
senting a college tutor’s chamber. Gothic in 
character, and a high-backed oaken chair, anti- 
quated and carved, in which like Faust philo- 
sophising to the respectful Vagner, sat Doctor 
Sprague, with his finger on the open letter she 
had sent him, exhorting and reproving the 
contumacious William Maubray, and in the 
act of despatching him, in a suit of sackcloth, 
with peas in his shoes, on a penitential pil- 
grimage to Gilroyd. 

This pleasing shadow, like an illusion of 
the magic lantern, vanished in pitch dark- 
ness, as Miss Perfect read the good doctor’s 
-answer. With a pallid, patient smile, and 
feeling suddenly cold from her head to her 
feet, she continued to gaze in sore distress 
upon the letter. Had William enlisted, or had 
he embarked as steward on board an Ameri- 
can steamer ? Was he'^^bout working his 
passage to New Zealand, or had he turned 
billiard marker ? 

Neighbours dropped in,, no wand then to 
pay a visit, and Violet had such conversation 
as the vicinity afforded, and chatted and laugh- 
ed all she could. “But Miss Perfect was very 
silent for some days ^iifter the arrival of Dr. 
Sprague’s letter. She ■^\^as more gentle, and 
smiled a good4eal,but was wan, and sighed 
from time to tfme, and her dinner was a mere 
make bqjief. And^ looking out of her bed- 
room window in the evening, toward Saxton, 
she did not heSr old Winnie Dobbs who had 
thrice ef^costed her. But after a little she 
turned • to the patient old handmaid, and 
said — 

“ Pretty the old church looks in the sun ; 

I sometimes, wish I were there.” 

Old Winnie followed the direction of her 
eyes, and gazed also, saying mildly — 

Good sermons, indeed, ma’am, and a good 
parson, kind to the poor ; and very comfort- 
able it is, sure, if they did not raise the stove 
so high. I think ’twas warmer before they 
raised it.” 

“ For a hundred and fifty years the Gilroyd 
people have been all buried there,” continued 
Aunt Dinah, talking more to the old church 
than to Winnie. 

“ Well, I should not wonder,” said Winnie, 

“ there is a deal o’ them lies there. My grand- 
mother minded the time old Lady Slaubray 
was buried yonder, with that fine marble thing 


ALL IN THE DARK, 


47 


ontside o’ the church. The rails is gone very 
rusty now, and that coat of arms, and the 
writing, it’s wearing out — it is worn, the rain 
or something, and indeed I sometimes do 
think where is the good of grandeur, when we 
die it’s all equal, the time being so short as it 
is. Master Willie asked me show it him last 
Sunday three weeks coming out o’ church, 

and even his young eyes 

Don’t name him, don’t mention him,” said 
Aunt Dinah suddenly in a tone of cold decision. 

Winnie’s guileless light blue eyes looked ' 
up in helpless wonder in her mistress’ face. 
“Don’t name his name, Winnie Dobbs. He’s 
said she in the same severe tone. 

“ Gone !” repeated Winnie. “ Yes, sure I 
but — but he’ll come back.” 

“ No, he shan’t, Winnie ; he’ll darken my 
doors no more. Come what may, tMt shan’t 
be. I — I’ll, perhaps, I may assist him occa- 
sionally still, but see him, never ! He — he 
has renounced me, and I — I wash my hands of 
liim.” She was answering Winnie’s look of 
consternation. “ Let him go his own way as 
ho chooses it — I’ve done with him.” 

There was a long jpause here, during which 
ancient Winnie Dobbs stared with an imbecile 
incredulity at her mistress, who was looking 
still at the old church. Then old Winnie 
sighed. Then she shook her head, touching 
the tip of her tongue with a piteous little 
“ tick, tick, tick,” to the back of her teeth. 

And Aunt Dinah continued drearily — 

“ And Miss Violet must find this very dull 
— very. I’ve no right to keep her here. She 
would be happier in some’ other home, poor 
child. I’m but a dismaD^companion — very ; 
and how long is it since young Mr. Trevor 
was here ? You don’t remember — ^there, don’t 
try, but it must be three weeks or more, and 
■ — and I do think he was very attentive. I 
mean Winnie, but you are to say nothing be- 
low stairs, you know — :I mean, I really think 
he was in love witl\MiSs Vi.” 

“Well, indeed, they did talk about it — ^the 
neighbours ; there was talk, a dealV talk, and 
I don’t know, but I often thought^she liked 
him.” 

“Well, thafs off too, quifej I think; you 
know it is very rude, impertinent, iil fact, his 
never having called here once, or done more 
than just raise his hat to us in the church 
door on Sundays, ever since William Maubray 
went away. I look upon his conduct as alto- 
gether outrageous, and being the kind of per- 
son he is, I’m very glad he disclosed himself 
so early, and certainly it would have been a 
thousand pities the girl should have ever 
thought of him. So that’s over too, and all 
the better it is, and I begin to grow tired of 
the whole thing — very tired, Winnie ; and I 
believe the people over there,” and she nod- 
ded toward the churchyard, “ are best provided 
^ for, and it’s time, Winnie, I should be think- 
ing of joining them where the wicked cease 
from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” 

. “God forbid, ma’am!” remonstrated old 
Winnie, mildly, and they turned together 
from the window to dccomplish Aunt Dinah’s 
toilet. 


CHAPTER XXVm. 

THE PIPINO BULLFINCH. 

Next Sunday Mr. Vane Trevor, after church, 
happened to be carried in one of the converg- 
ing currents of decently-dressed Christianity 
into the main channel through the porch, 
almost side by side with the two Gilroyd 
ladies then emerging. 

Mr. Vane Trevor, in pursuance of his pru- 
dent reserve, would have avoided this meet- 
ing. But so it was. In the crowded church 
porch, out of which the congregation emerges 
so slowly, with a sort of decent crush, almost 
pressed inconveniently against good Miss 
Perfect, the young gentleman found himself, 
and in a becoming manner, with a chastened 
simper, inquiring after their health, and 
making the proper remarks about the weather. 

Aunt Dinah received these attentions very 
drily ; but Miss Vi, in such an arch, becoming 
little shell-like bonnet, looked perfectly love- 
ly ; and to do her justice, was just as friendly 
as usual. 

It was no contrivance of his, the meeting 
with this bewitching little bonnet where he ' 
did. How could he help the strange little 
thrill with which he found himself so near — ■ 
and was it in human nature, or even in good 
manners, to deny himself a very little walk, 
perhaps only to the church-yard gate, beside 
Miss Violet Darkwell ? 

“How is my friend Maubray?” inquired 
Trevor of Miss Perfect, whom he found him- 
self next. 

“ I really don’t know — I have not heard — I 
suppose he is very well,” she answered, with 
an icy severity that rather surprised the young 
man, who had heard nothing of the quarrel. 

“ I must write. I ought to have asked him 
when he meant to return. I am so anxious 
for an excuse to renew our croquet on the 
lawn at Gilroyd.” 

This little speech was accompanied with a 
look which Violet could hardly mistake. 

“I don’t think it likely,” said Miss Perfect, 
in the same dry tone. 

“Any time within the next three weeks. 
The weather will answer charmingly,” con- 
tinued Trevor, addressing Miss Darkwell. 

“ But I rather think Miss Darkwell will have 
to make her papa a little visit. He’s to return 
on the eighteenth, you remember, my dear ; 
and he says, you know, you are to meet him 
at Richmond.” 

So said Aunt Dinah, who had no notion of 
this kind of trifling. 

Trevor again saw the vision of a lean, vul- 
gar, hard-voiced barrister, trudging beside him 
with a stoop, and a seedy black frock coat ; and 
for a minute was silent. But he looked across 
at pretty Miss Vi, so naturally elegant, and in 
another moment the barrister had melted into 
air, and he saw only that beautiful nymph. 

“ I want to look at old Lady Maubray’s 
monument round the east end here, of the 
church. You would not dislike,.dear, to come 
—only a- step. I must have any repairs done 


48 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


that may be needed. Good morning, Mr. 
Trevor.” 

But Mr. Trevor begged leave to be of the 
party, knowing exactly where the monument 
stood. 

There is a vein of love-making with which 
a country church-yard somehow harmonizes 
.very tenderly. Among the grass-grown graves 
the pretty small feet, stepping lightly and 
reverently, the hues and outlines of beauty 
and young life ; the gay faces shadowed with 
a passing sadj^ess — ^nothing ghastly, nothing 
desolate — only a sentiment of the solemn and 
the melancholy, and underlying that tender 
sadness, the trembling fountains of life and 
gladness, the pulses of youth and hope. 

“ Yes ; very, very much neglected,’' said 
Miss Perfect. “ We can do nothing with that 
marble, of course,” she observed, nodding 
toward the arched cornice at top, which time 
and weather had sadly worn and furrowed. 
“ It was her wish, my dear father often told 
me ; she loould have it outside, not in the 
church ; but the rails, and this masonry — ^we 
must have that set to rights — 

And so, stepping lightly among weeds and 
long grass, and by humble headstones and 
time-worn tombs, they came forth under the 
shadow of the tall elms by the church-yard 
gate, and again Miss Perfect intimated a fare- 
Tfell to Trevor, who, however, said he would 
go homo by the stile — a path which would 
lead him by the gate of Gilroyd ; and before 
he had quite reached that he had begun to 
make quite a favourable impression once more 
on the old lady ; insomuch that, in her forget- 
fulness, she asked him at the gate of Gilroyd 
to come in, v/hich very readily he did ; and 
the little party sat down together in the 
drawing-room of Gilroyd, and chatted in a 
very kindly and agreeable way ; and Vane 
Trevor, who like Aunt Dinah, was a con- 
noisseur in birds, persuaded her to accept a 
bullfinch, which he would send her next morn- 
ing in a new sort of cage, which had just come 
out. 

He waited in vain, however, for one of those 
iittle momentary absences which, at other 
times, had left him and Violet alone. Miss 
Perfect, though mollified, sat him out very 
determinedly. So at last, having paid a very 
long visit, Mr. Vane Trevor could decently 
prolong it no further, and he went away with 
an unsatisfactory and disappointed feeling, 
not quite reasonable, considering the inflex- 
ible rule he had imposed upon himself in the 
matter of Gilroyd Hall and its inhabitants. 

Maubray has told her all I said,” thought 
Vane Trevor, as he pursued the solitary path 
along the uplands of Revington. The old 
woman— what a bore she is — was quite plainly- 
vexed at first ; but — but that jolly little crea- 
ture — Violet — Violet, it is a pretty name — she 
was exactly as usual. By Jove ! I thought 
she'd have been a bit vexed ; but she’s an 
angel,” he dreamed on, disappointed. I 
don’t think she can have even begun to care 
for me the least bit in the world — I really 
doiiltr He was looking down on the path. 


his hands in his pockets, and his cane under 
his arm ; and he kicked a little stone out of 
his way at the emphatic w^ord, rather fiercely. 
“ And so much the better ; there’s no need of 
all that caution^ Stuff! They know quite 
well I’ve no ictca of marrying ; and what 
more ? And there’s no danger of her, for she 
.is plainly quite content with those terms, and 
does not care for me — now, that’s all right.” 

It is not always easy to analyze one’s own 
motives ; but beneath that satisfaction, there 
was very considerable soreness, and something 
like a resolution to make her like him, in spite 
of her coldness. The pretty, little, imperti- 
nent, cold, bewitching gipsy. It w’as so ab- 
surd. She did not seem the least flattered 
by the distinction of his admiration. 

Next morning, after breakfast, he drove 
down in his dog-cart, instead of sending the 
bird as he had proposed. There were some 
ingenious contrivances in this model cage 
which required explanation. The oddest thing 
about the present was that the piping bull- 
finch sang two of Miss Violet’s favourite airs. 
Trevor had no small difficulty, and a diffuse 
correspondence, in his search for one so parti- 
cularly accomplished. 

When in the drewing-room at Gilroyd, he 
waved a feather before its eyes, and the little 
songster displayed his acquirements. Trevor 
stole a glance at Miss Vi ; but she looked per- 
fectly innocent, and smiled with a provoking 
simplicity on the bird. Miss Perfect was, 
however, charmed, and fancied she knew the 
airs, but was, honestly, a little uncertain. 

“ It is really too good of you, Mr. Trevor,” 
she exclaimed. 

‘‘ On the contrary, I’m much obliged by 
your accepting the charge. I’m a sort of — of 
wandering Arab, you know, and I shall be 
making the tour of my friends’ country 
houses ; so poor little Pipe would have been 
very lonely, perhaps neglected ; and I should 
very likely have had a letter some day an- 
nouncing his death, and that, for fifty reasons, 
would have half broken my heart whereat 
he laughed a little, for Aunt Dinah, and 
glanced one very meaning and tender ogle 
on Miss Violet. 

Well, Mr. Trevor, disguise it how you 
may, you are very good-natured,” said Miss 
Perfect, much pleased with her new pet ; “ and 
I’m very much obliged. ” 


CHAPTER XXI31 

A MESSAGE IN THE TIMES.” 

With this little speech. Aunt Dinah, thinking 
for the moment of nothing but her bird, and 
very much pleased with Mr. Trevor, carried 
the little songster away to her room, leaving 
the young people together at the open parlour 
window. 

^^I hope you like liim?” Trevor said, in a 
a low tone. 


ALL IN THE DAKK. 


49 


“ Oh, charming P replied Miss Vi. 

“ I should not for all tjjje world — ^you’ll never 
know the reason why, perhaps — ^have let him 
go to any place else, but here — upon my 
honour,” said Mr. Vane Trevor, speaking very 
much in earnest. 

“ Miss Perfect, I can see, is charmed,” said 
Miss Violet. 

‘‘Ah, yes you think so — very happy. Pm 
sure ; but — ^but I shall miss him very much. 
I — I — you’ve no idea what company he has 
been to me ; and — and what a lot of trouble I 
had in finding one to — in fact, the sort of one 
I wanted.” 

“ They are very pretty, very sweet ; but, 
after all, don’t you think the natural song the 
best. I should be afraid of the repetition ; I 
should tire of the same airs,” said Miss Dark- 
well. 

“ Of others — ^yes, perhaps, I should, but of 
those, never said Mr. Vane Trevor eloquently. 

No romantic young gentleman, who means 
to walk in the straight and narrow path of 
prudence, does well in falling into such a dia- 
logue of covert-meanings with so very pretty 
a girl as Miss Violet Darkwell. It is like 
going up in a baloon, among invisible and 
irresistible currents, and the prince of the 
powers of the air alone can tell how long a 
voyage you are in for, and in what direction 
you may come down. 

The flattering tongues of men ! sweet airy 
music atuned to love and vanity, to woman’s 
pride and weakness, half despised, half 
' cherished. Long after — a phrase — a/ragment 
of a sentence, like a broken bar or half- 
remembered cadence of some sweet old air, 
that sounded in your young ears, in dances 
and merry-makings, now far and filmy as bye- 
gone dreams, turns up unbidden — comes back 
upon rememberance, and is told with a sad- 
dened smile, to another generation. Drink in 
the sweet music at your pretty ears ; it will 
not last always. There is a day for enjoy- 
ment, and a day for rememberance, and then 
the days of darkness. 

A little blush — the glory, too, c€ ever so 
faint a smile ! the beautiful flush of beauty’s 
happy triumph was on the fair face of the 
girl, as she listened for a moment, with down- 
cast eyes ; and Vane Trevor, conceited young 
man as he was, had never felt so elated as 
when he saw that transient, but beautiful glow, 
answering to his folly. 

I may look on her with different eyes, like 
the Choragus of an old play, and wonder and 
speculate which it is she likes — the flattery 
or the lover — or each for sake of the other'; or 
the flattery only, caring not that bullfinch’s 
feather on the carpet for him ? There’s not 
much in her face to guide me ; I can only see, 
for certain, that she is pleased. 

“ I — I shall never forget those airs ; they — 
you know, you sang them the first time I heard 
you sing ; and Pam afraid I have been awfully 
unreasonable about them, asking you to sing 
them for. me every time nearly I had an oppor- 
tunity ; and I — I assure you, I don’t know what 

I shall do without ray poor bird ; and ” 

4 


Exactly at this point Aunt Dinah returned, 
and Mr. Vane Trevor, with admirable presence 
of mind, said ; 

“ I 'was just saying to Miss Darkwell, I am 
sure I have heard her sing those little songs 
the bird whistles.’^ 

“So she does,” interrupted Miss Perfect. 

“ I could not think where I heard them. You 
know those airs, Vi V 

“ Yes — I think they are among my songs,” 
answered Violet, carelessly. 

“ It would be very good of you. Miss Perfect 
— now that I’ve parted with my — my — 
musician, you know — if you would allow me — 
just perhaps once before I leave Eevington — I 
shall be away probably some months — to look 
in some evening, when Miss Darkwell is at her 
music — it is very impertinent I’m afraid to ask 
— ^but knowing those airs so well, I should liko 
so much to hear them sung, if you happened to 
— to be able to find them.” The concluding 
words were to Violet. 

“Oh, deali: yes — won’t you, Vi — certainly, 
any evening, we shall be very happy ; but you 
know we are very early people, and our tea 
hour seven o’clock.” 

“ Oh, quite deligthful,” exclaimed the acco- 
modating Vane Trevor, “ I have no hours at all 
at Eevington ; when Pm alone there, I just eat 
when I’m hungry and sleep when Pm sleepy.” 

“ The certain way to loose your health 1” 
exclaimed Miss Perfect. 

“Very much obliged — I’ll certainly turn 
up, you know, seven o’clock, some evening. 

And so he took his leave, and was haunted 
day and night by Violet Darkwell’s beautiful ■ 
down-cast face, as he had seen it that morning. 

“ I knew Pd make her like me — by Jove, I 
knew I should — she does, I’m quite sure of it, 
she’s beginning to like me, and if I choose 
I’ll make her like me awfully. 

Now, all the rest of that day, Trevor thought 
a great deal less than he had ever done before, 
of the pomps and vanities of Eevington, and 
the vain glories of the Trevors of that Ilk. 
Wrestling with love is sometimes like wrest- 
ling with an angel, and when the struggle 
seems well nigh over, and the athlete sure of 
his victory, one unexpected touch of the an- 
gelic hand sets him limping again for many 
a day. Little did he fancy that the chance 
meeting in the shadowy porch of Saxton 
church would rivet again the sightless chains 
which it had taken some time and trouble to 
unclasp, and send him maundering and spirit- 
less in his fetters among the woods and lonely 
paths of Eevington ; not yet, indeed, bewail- 
ing in vain his captivity, but still conscious 
of the invisible influence in which he was 
again intangled, and with no very clear analy- 
sis of the present, or thoughts for the future. 

Time had brought no tidings of William 
Maubray, and except on occasions. Aunt 
Dinah’s fits of silence were growing longer, 
and her old face more wan and sad. 

“Ungrateful creature 1” said she, uncon- 
sciously aloud. 

“Who, ma’am?” asked old Winnie, mildly. 
Her mistress was disrobing for bed. 


50 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


Eh, who? repeated Miss Perfect. “My 
nephew, William Mauhray, to think of his 
never once sending me a line, or a message 1 
we might all be dead here and he never 
know. Not that I care for his indifference 
and heartless ingratitude, for as I told you 
before, I shall never see his face again. You 
need not stare, you need not say a word, 
Winnie ; it is quite fixed. You may go to see 
him at Cambridge, if he’s there, or wherever 
he is, but the door of Gilroyd he shall never 
enter more while I live, and he and his con- 
cerns shall trouble me just as little as I and 
mine do him.” 

It w.as about this time that William Mau- 
bray, who was permitted regularly to look 
into the Times^ saw the following notification 
among its advertisements : — 

“If the young gentleman who abruptly 
left his old relative’s house, under displeas- 
ure, on the night of , is willing to enter 

the Church, a path to reconciliation may be 
opened ; but none otherwise. If he . needs 
pecuniary assistance it will be supplied to the 
extent of £50, on his applying through his 
tutor, Doctor S , but not directly.” 

“How insulting — ^how severe and unfor- 
giving,” murmured William. “How could 
;.he fancy it possible that I could accept the 
insult of her gift ?” 

With a swelling heart he turned to another 
part of the paper, and tried to read. But the 
odious serpent coiled and hissing at him from 
its little tabulated compartment, was too 
near^ and he could tbioh of notliiug else. 


•o 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

THU LORD OP BURLEIGH. 

One morning at breakfast, the Kincton letters 
having arrived, Miss Clara, who had only one, 
tossed it carelessly to her mamma, who, 
having just closed one of her own, asked — ■ 

“ Who is it?” 

“ Vane ; he’s coming here he says on Thurs- 
day, instead of Wednesday,” answered the 
young lady. 

“Cool young gentleman I” observed Mrs. 
Kincton Knox. “ He ought to know that 
people don’t invite themselves to Kincton — 
any news ?” 

“ Yes ; there has been an awful battle, and 
young Maubray has gone off, no one knows 
where, and everyone curious to find out — 
quite irreconcileable, they say.” 

“Does he say what about?” inquired the 
old lady, taking up the letter. 

“No, nothing ; only that,” answered Clara. 

“ Mamma, Mr. Herbert’s blushing all over, 
like fun,” cried Master Howard from the other 
side of the table, with a great grin on his jam- 
bedaubed mouth, and his spoon pointed at 
poor William’s countenance. 

% 


The ladies involuntarily glanced at W illiam, 
who blushed more fiercely than ever, and 
began to fiddle with h* knife and fork. Miss 
Clara’s glance only, as it were, touched him, 
and was instantly fixed on the view through 
the window, in apparent abstraction. Mrs. 
Kincton Knox’s prominent dark eyes rested 
gravely a little longer on poor William’s face, 
and the boy, waving his spoon, and kicking 
his chair, cried, “ Ha, ha I” 

“ Don’t, sir, that’s extremely rude — lay 
down spoon ; you’re never to point at any 
one, sir. Mr. Herbert’s quite ashamed of 
you, and so am I.” 

“ Come here,” said William. “ May he 
come to me ?” asked William. 

“ Oh, no I you all want me to hold my 
tongue. It’s always so, and that. great beast 
of a Clara,” bawled “ the hope of the house,” 
as his mamma was wont to call him. 

“Come to me,” said poor William, mildly. 

“ Or, if you permit we, Mr. Hebert,” said 
Mrs. Kincton Knox. Howard ! I can’t tolerate 
this. You are to sit quiet, and eat your break- 
fast — do you hear — ^nd do you like sardines ? 
— Mr. Hebert, may I trouble you — thanks; 
and no personalities, mind — never I Mr. 
Hebert, a little more tea ? ” 

The ladies fell into earnest conference that 
morning after breakfast, so soon as William 
and his pupil had withdrawn. 

“ W. M. ! Everything marked with W. M. 
— Wynston Maubray. Don’.t you see?” said 
the old lady, with a nod, and her dark and 
prominent eyes fixed suddenly on her daughter. 

“ Yes, of course ; and did you look at his 
face when I mentioned the quarrel with Sir 
Eichard ? ” said the young lady. 

“Did you ever see anything like it?” ex- 
claimed her mother. 

Miss Clara smiled mysteriously, andmodded 
her acquiescence. 

“ Why, my dear, it was the colour of that,” 
continued Mrs. Kincton Knox, pointing her 
finger fiercely at the red leather back of the 
chair that stood by them. “I don’t think 
there canibe a doubt. I know there’s none in 
my mind.” 

“ It is very curious — very romantic. I only 
hope that we have not been using him very 
ill,” said Miss Clara, and she laughed more 
heartily than was her wont. 

“ 111 I I don’t know what you mean. I trust, 
Clara, no one is ever ill-used at Kincton. It 
certainly would rather surprise me to hear 
anything of the kind,” retorted the lady of 
Kincton, loftily. 

Well, I did not mean ill, exactly. I ought 
to have said rudely. I hope we have not been 
treating him like a — a — what shall I say ? — 
all this time,” and the young lady laughed 
again. 

“We have shown him, Clara, all the kind- 
ness and consideration which a person enter- 
ing this house in the capacity he chose to as- 
sume could possibly have expected. I don’t 
suppose he expected us to divine by witch- 
craft who and what he was ; and I am very 
certain that he would not have thought as — as 


ALL IN THE DABK. 


51 


highly of ns, if we had acted in the slightest 
degree differently ” 

But though she spoke bo confidently, Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, that perfect woman, was se- 
cretly troubled with misgivings of the same 
uncomfortable kind, and would have given a 
good deal to be able to modify the past, or 
even distinctly to call its incidents to mind. 

“ Of course, Clara, I shan’t observe upon 
those odd coincidences to Mr. — Mr. Herbert 
himself. It is his wish to be private for the 
present. We have no right to pry. But there 
is certainly justifiable — I may say, even called 
for — some little modification of our own de- 
meanour toward him, in short ; and knowing 
now — as I feel confident we do — who he is, 
there is no need of the same degree of reserve 
and — and distance ; and I am very glad, if for 
this reason only, that you may more frequent- 
ly, my dear Clara, look in and see your little 
brother, who is so much shut up ; it would he 
only kind.” 

In fact this old warrior, with the Eoman 
nose and eagle eye, surveying the position, 
felt, in Cromwell’s phrase, that the “ Lord had 
delivered him into her hand.” There he was 
domesticated, in what she might regard as a 
romantic incognito, without parental author- 
ity to impede or suspicion to alarm him I 
Could a more favourable conjuncture be 
fancied? How a little real Idndness would 
tell just now upon his young heart; and he 
would have such an opportunity in his dis- 
guise of estimating and being touched by the 
real amiability of the Kincton Knoxes ; and 
the Maubray estates and an old baronetage 
would close Miss Clara’s campaigning with 
eclat. 

The young lady did look into the school- 
room. 

“ I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, you'll think me 
very tiresome,” she said. 

William had risen as she entered, with a 
bow. 

“ But mamma is thinking of taking Howard 
a drive, if you approve, and Howard, we are 
going to Bolton Priory. Mamma wishes so 
much to know whether you will allow him to 
come.” 

“ I — I can have no objection. He's not now 
at his lessons. I’m sure it will do him a great 
deal of good.” 

Miss Clara, in a pretty attitude, leaning with 
one hand on the table, was smiling down on 
Master Howard, and caressingly running her 
taper fingers through his curls. 

Let my head be — ^will you,” he bawled, 
disengaging himself, with a bounce and a 
thump at her hand. 

The young lady smiled and shrugged plain- 
tively at William, who said, ^‘Howard, I shall 
tell your mamma, if /ou are rude to Miss 
Knox, and I’ll ask her not to take you out 
^ to-day.” 

“ That’s just it,” retorted Master Howard. 
“ That’s the way you men always take her part 
against me, because you think she's young 
and pretty. Ah-hal I wish you’d ask her 
maid— Winter.” 


“Be quiet, sir,” said William, in soDtern a 
tone, and with so angry a fla^ of his blue 
eyes, that the young gentleman was actually 
overawed, and returned lowering and mutter- 
ing to the ship he had been rigging, only 
making an ugly grimace over his shoulder, 
and uttering the word “ crocodile I ” 

Though Miss Clara smiled plaintively down 
upon the copy of Tennyson which lay open 
on the table, and turned over a page or two 
with her finger-tip, serenely, she inwardly 
quaked while Howard declaimed, and in her 
soul wished him the fate of Cicero ; and when 
she got to her room planted her chair before 
the cheval glass with a crash, and exclaimed, 
“ I do believe that the fiendish imp is raised 
up expressly to torture me! Other parents 
would beat such a brat into mummy, and 
knock his head off rather than their daughter 
should be degraded by him ; but mine seem 
to like it positively. I wish — oh! don’t I, 
just .” And the aposiopesis and the look were 
eloquent. 

But she had not yet left the school-room, 
and as she looked down on the open pages, 
she murmured, sadly, “ The Lord of Burleigh 1” 
And looking up she said to William, “ I see 
you read my poet and my favourite poem, too, 
only I think it too heart-rending. I can’t read 
it. I lose my spirits for the whole day after, 
and I wonder whether the story is really true.” 
She paused with a look of sad inquiry, and 
William answered that he had read it was so. 

And she said, with a little sigh, “ That only 
makes it. sadder,” and she seemed to have 
something more to say, but did not ; and after 
a moment, with a little smile and a nod, she 
went from the room. And William thought 
he had never seen her look so handsome, and 
had not before suspected her of so much mind 
and so much feeling, and he took the book up 
and read the poem through, and dreamed over 
it till the servant came with a knock at the 
door, and his mistress’ compliments, to know 
if jldaster Howard might go now. 


CHAPTEB XXXI. 

A FRIEND APPEARS. 

YvhLUAii Maubray's harmless self love was 
flattered by the growing consideration with 
which he was treated. The more they saw of 
him plainly the better they liked him, and 
William began, too, dimly to fancy that there 
must be something very engaging about him. 

A night or two later, his pupil having just 
gone to' bed, a footman came with a little 
scrap of pink paper, pencilled over, in Mrs. 
Kincton Knox’s hand, on a salver, for William, 
who found these words ; 

“ It has just struck me that I might possibly 
prevail upon your good-nature, to look in 
upon our solitude for half an hour; though 
we don’t like abridging your ^ours of liberty, 


62 


ALL m THE DABK. 


it would really be quite a kindness to indulge 
me ; and if you can lay your hand upon your 
volume of Tennyson, pray bring it with you.” 

Up got William, and with his hook in his 
hand followed the servant, who announced 
Mr. Herbert at the drawing-room door, and 
William found himself in that vast apart- 
ment, the lights of which were crowded about 
the fire, and the rest comparatively dim. 

So good of you, Mr. Herbert,” said Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, with a superb smile, and even 
extending her fingers in the solemn exuber- 
ance of her welcome. “ It is so very kind of 
you to come ; so unreasonable, I fear ; we had 
a debate, I assure you,” and she smiled with 
awful archness toward Miss Clara, but my 
audacity carried it — ^you’ve brought the book 
too — he has brought the book, Clara: how 
very kind, is not it ?” 

Miss Clara answered by a glance at their 
visitor, almost grateful, and a smile at her 
mother, who continued— 

“ You have no idea, Mr. Herbert — pray sit 
where we can both hear and see you — how 
very lonely we are in these great rooms, vrhen 
wo are tete-d-tete, as you see.” 

William’s remarks in reply were not very 
original or very many, but such as they were 
nothing could be more successful, and the 
ladies exchanged smiles of approbation over 
the timid little joke, which had all but broken 
down. 

So William xead aloud, and the ladies each 
in her way, were charmed, and next night he 
was invited again, and there was more con- 
versation and rather less reading, and so he 
grew much more easy and intimate, and began 
to look forward to these little reunions with a 
very j^leasant interest ; and Miss Clara’s bril- 
liant beauty and some little indications of a 
penchant very flattering began to visit his 
fancy oftener than I should have supposed 
likely ; although it is hard to say when the 
way-side flowers on the longest journey quite 
lose their interest; or how much care and 
fatigue are needed to make a man cease to 
smile now and then, or whistle a stave on his 
way. 

William and his pupil were walking down 
the thick fir wood that lies on the slope be- 
tween Kincton and the Old London road, when 
just at a curve in the path, within twenty 
yards, whom should ho come upon suddenly 
in this darksome by-way but Mr. Vane Trevor. 

They both stopped short. 

“ By Jove ! Maubray ?” exclaimed Trevor, 
after a pause, and he cackled one of his agree- 
able laughs. 

Did not expect to see you here, Trevor,” 
replied William, looking on the whole rather 
dismally surprised. 

“ Why, what are you afraid of, old Maubray ? 
I’m not going to do you any harm, upon my 
honour,” and he laughed again, approaching 
his friend, who likewise advanced to meet 
him, smiling, with rather an effort. “Very 
glad to see you, and— and I’ve a lot to tell 
you,” said he, “ I don’t mean any nonsense, 
but — but really serious things.” 


“ All well at home ?” asked William eagerly. 

“ Oh, dear, yes, quite well — all flourishing. 
It is not — it’s nothing unpleasant, you know, 
only I mean something, I — I, it’s of import- 
ance to me, by Jove 1 and to — to, I fancy, 
otherpeople also ; and I — I see you’re puzzled. 
Can v/e get rid of that little v^nretch for a 
minute or two ?” and he glanced at Howard 
Seymour Knox, to whom, he just remembered, 
he had not yet spoken. 

“ And how do you do, Howard, my boy ? 
Flourishing, I see. Would you like to have 
a shot with my revolver? I left it at the 
game-keeper’s down there. Well, give them 
this card, and they’ll give it to you — and we’ll 
try and shoot a rabbit — eh ?” 

Away went Master Howard, and Trevo? 
said— 

“ And do tell me, what are you doing here, 
of all places in the world ?’^ 

“ I’m. a resident tutor — neither more no? 
less,” said William Maubray, with a bitter 
gaiety. 

“You mean you’ve come here to Kincton 
to teach that little cur — I hope you lick him 
a trifle ?” inquired Trevor. 

“ Yes ; but I don’t lick him, and in fact thc^ 
situation — ^that’s the right word, isn’t it? — ^ir 
very, what’s the word? We get on quietly 
and they’re all very civil to me, and it’s verj 
good of a swell like you to talk so to a pool 
devil of a pedagogue.” 

“ Come, Maubray, none of your chaff. 1 
knew by your aunt’s manner there was a screw 
loose somewhere — something about a living, 
was’nt there ?” 

It was plain, however, that Trevor was 
thinking of something that concerned him 
more nearly than William Maubray ’s squab- 
ble with his aunt. 

“ It’s a long stor3",” said William ; “ she 
wants me to go into the Church, and I won’t, 
and so there’s a quarrel, and that’s all.” • 

“And the» supplies stopped?” exclaimed 
Trevor. 

“ Well, I think she would not stop them ; 
she is yery generous — ^but I could not, you 
know, it’s time I should do something ; and 
I’m here — Dr. Sprague thought it right — 
under the name of Herbert. They know it’s 
an assumed name — we took care to tell them 
that — so there’s no trick, you know, and please 
don’t say my name’s Maubray, it would half 
break my aunt’s heart.” 

“Secret as the tomb, Herbert^ I’ll remember, 
and — and I hope that nasty little dog won’t 
be coming back in a minute — it’s a good way 
though — and, by Jove ! it’s very comical, 
though, and almost providential this, meeting 
you here, for I did want a friend to talk a bit 
to, awfully, and, you know, Maubray, I really 
have always looked oS. you jn the light of a 
friend. 

There was a consciousness of the honour 
which such a distinction conferred in the tone 
in which this was spoken, and William, in 
the cynical irony which, in this interview, ho 
had used with Trevor, interposed with — 

“AJiumhle fricneband very muchilattered.” 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


53 


“Yon’re no such thing, upon my honour, 
and I think you’re joking. But I really do 
regard you as a friend, and I want to tell you 
no end of things that I really think will sur- 
prise you.” 

William Mauhray looked in Trevor’s face, 
gravely and dubiously, and said he, with the 
air of a man of the world, “Well, I should 
like to hear — and any advice* II can offer, it is 
not of any great value I fear, is quite at your 
service.” 

“Let’s sit down here,” -said Trevor, and 
side by side they seated themselves on a rustic 
seat, and in the golden shade of the firs and 
pines. Vane Trevor began to open his case to 
William. 


-o* 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A CeNFIDENCE. 

“ I dojs’t know what you’ll think of it after 
all I’ve said, but I’m going to marry your 
cousin, Violet Darkwell,” said Vane Trevor, 
after a little pause, and with a kind of effort, 
and a rather deprecatory smile. 

“ Oh ?” exclaimed William Maubray, cheer- 
ily, and with a smile. But the smile was wan, 
and the voice sounded ever so far away. 

“ There’s no use, Maubray, in a fellow re- 
sisting his destiny ; and there’s an old saying, 
you know, about marriages being made in 
heaven. By Jove ! when it comes to a certain 
point with a fellow, it’s all over ; no good 
struggling, and he may as well accomplish his 
— ^his destiny — by Jove, with a good grace. 
And — and I know, Maubray, you’ll be glad to 
hear, and — and I really believe it’s the best, 
and wisest thing I could have done — don’t 
you think so ?” 

“I’m sure of that,” said"^ William, in the 
same tone, with the same smile. “ You’re — 
everyone says it’s better to marry, when a 
fellow can afford it ; but — ^but, I did not think 
you had a notion ; that is, for ever so long ; 
and then, some — ^some great lady.” 

“No more I had,” answered Trevor. “ By 
Jove 1 a month ago, you weren’t a more un- 
likely man ; but how can I help it ? You 
never were spoony on a girl in all your life, 
and of course you can’t tell ; but you’ve no 
idea how impossible it is for a fellow, when 
once he comes to be really in — in love — to — 
to make himself happy, and be content to 
lose her. /can’t 1 knW.” 

“ No, of course,” answered William, with 
the same smile and an involuntary sigh. 

“ And then, you know, money and that sort 
of thing, it’s all very fine, all very good in a 
wife ; but by Jove 1 there’s more than you 
think in — in fascination and beauty, and 
manner, and that sort of thing. There’s Sir 
John Sludgeleigh — old family, capital fellow 
— he chose to marry a woman from some of 
those cotton mill places, with no end of 


money, and by Jove, I think "ho has been 
ashamed to show ever since ; you never saw 
such a brute. He’s ashamed of her, and they 
say he’d give his right hand he had never set 
eyes on her. I can quite understand, of 
course, a fellow that has not a guinea left ; 
but, by Jove, if you saw her, you could con- 
ceive such a thing. And there’s old Lord 
Ricketts, he married quite a nobody. Sweetly 
pretty, to be sure, but out of a boarding 
school, and so clever, you know, but no 
money, and no family, and he so awfully dipt ; 
and she set herself to work and looked after 
everything, awfully clever, and at this mo- 
ment the estate does not owe a guinea, and 
she found it with a hundred and twenty 
thousand pounds mortgage over it; and 
when he married her every one said it was all 
up, and his ruin certain, and by Jove it v/ag 
that marriage that saved him.” 

“Very curiou^l” said William, dismally. 

“ To be sure it is ; there’s no subject, I ten 
you, there’s so much nonsense talked about as 
marriage ; if a woman brings you a fortune or 
connexion, by Jove, she’ll make you pay for 
it. I could tell you half a dozen who have 
been simply ruined by making what all the 
world thought wonderfully good marriages.” 

“ I dare say,” said William, in a dream. ^ 

“And then about family and connexion, 
really the thing, when you examine it, there’s 
wonderfully little in it; the good blood of 
England isn’t in the peerage ht all, it is really, 
as a rule, all in the landed gentry. Now, 
look at us, for example, I give you leave to 
search the peerage through, and you’ll not 
find four houses — I don’t speak of titles, but 
families — older than we. Except four, there 
is not one as old. And really, if people are 
nice, and quite well bred, what more do you 
want?” 

“ Oh, nothing,” sighed William. 

“ And do you know, I’ve rather a prejudice 
against barristers, I mean as being generally 
an awfully low, vulgar set ; and I assure you, 
I — I know I may say whatever I think to you ; 
but I, when I was thinking about all this 
thing, you know, I could not get the idea out 
of my head. I knew her father was a barris- 
ter, and he w^as always turning up in my 
mind ; you know the sort of thing, as — as a 
sort of fellow one could not like.” 

“But he’s a particularly gentlemanlike 
man,” broke in William, to whom Sergeant 
Darkwell had always been very kind. 

“ Oh ! you need not tell we, for I walked 
with himi home to Gilroyd, last Sunday, from 
church. I did not know who he was — stupid 
of me not to guess — and you can’t think what 
an agreeable — ^really nice fellow.” 

“I know him; he has been always very 
kind to me, and very encouraging about the 
bar,” said Maubray. 

“ Yes,” interrupted Trevor, “ and they say, 
certain to rise, and very high, too. Chancery, 
you know, and that — and — and such a really 
gentleman-like fellow, might be anything, 
and so — and so clever. I’m sure.” 

“Come down to draw the settlements,” 


64 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


tliouglit William, with, a pang. But he could 
not somehow my it. There are events to 
which you can submit, but the details of 
which you shrink from. Here was for Wil- 
liam, in some sort, a death, A familiar face 
gone. The rest was the undertaker’s business. 
The stretching and shrouding, and screwing 
clown, he had rather not hear of. 

You are going to tell the people here 
said William Maubray, not knowing well 
what to say. 

Tell them here, at Kincton I Not if I 
knows it. Why, I know pretty well, for fifty 
reasons, how theyHl receive it. Oh 1 no, I’ll 
just send them the prettiest little bit of a note 
in a week or two, when everything is quite 
settled, and I’ll not mind seeing them again 
for some time, I can tell you. Here's this lit- 
tle wretch coming again. Well, Howard, have 
you got the revolver ?” 

Master Howard’s face was swollen with tears 
and fury ? 

No, they wouldn’t give it me. You knew 
right well they would not, without mamma 
told ’em. I wished mamma was hanged ; I 
do ; she’s always a plaguing every one ; her 
and that great brute, Clara.” 

This explosion seemed to divert Mr. Trevor 
extremely ; but William was, of course, obliged 
to rebuke his pupil. 

“ If you say that again, Master Howard, I’ll 
tell your mamma.” 

“ I don’t care.” 

“ Very well, sir ” 

“I say, come with me,” said Trevor. We’ll 
ask mamma about the pistol. May he come ? 
and I shall be here again in half an hour.” 

Very well, do so, and just remember, 
though I don’t much care,” said Maubray, in 
an under tone, “ they don’t know my name 
here.” 

All right,” said Trevor; “I shan’t forget,” 
and he and his interesting companion took 
their departure, leaving William to his medi- 
tations. 

So ! going to be married — little Vi — pretty 
little Vi — little Vi, th^t used to climb up at 
the back of my chair. I’ll try and remember 
her always the same little wayward, beautiful 
darling. I’ve seen my last of her, at least for 
a long time, a very long time. I wonder — I 
wonder — Gilroyd — I’ll never see it again.” 

And thoughts, vague and sad, came swell- 
ing up the stormy channels of his heart, break- 
ing wildly and mournfully one over the other, 
and poor William Maubray, in bis solitude, 
wept some bitter tears. 


0 

CHAPTEE XXXm. 

tke ladies make inquisition. 

On the steps Vane Trevor was encountered 
by Mr. Kincton Knox, in his drab gaiters and 
portly white waistcoat, and white hat, and 


smiling in guileless hospitality, with both 
hands extended. “ Very glad. Vane, my dear 
boy — very happy — ^now we’ve got you, we’ll 
keep you three weeks at least. You must 
not be running away as usual. We”ll not let 
you off this time, mind.” 

Vane knew that the hospitable exuberances 
of the worthy gentleman were liable to be 
overruled by another power, and did not com- 
bat the hospitable seizure, as vigorously as if 
there had been no appeal. But he chatted a 
while with the old gentleman, and promised 
to walk down and see the plantations, and the 
new road with him. By a sort of silent com- 
promise, this out-door department was aban- 
doned to Mr. Kincton Knox, who seldom in- 
vaded the interior administration of the em- 
pire, and in justice, it must be alleged that 
the empress seldom interfered directly with 
the ‘ woods and forests,’ and contented herself 
with now and .then lifting up her fine eyes, 
and mittened hands, as she surveyed his opera- 
tions from the window in a resigned horror, 
and wondered how Mr. Kincton Knox could 
satisfy his conscience in wasting money the 
way he did I 

yhe had learned, however, that his walks, 
trees, and roads, were points bn which he 
might be raised to battle ; and as she knew 
there was little harm in the pursuit, and 
really little, if anything done, more than was 
needed, and as some one must look after it, she 
conceded the point without any systematic 
resistance, and confined herself to the sort of 
silent protest I hai^e mentioned. 

While Vane Trevor lingered for a few 
minutes with the old gentleman, Master 
Howard Seymour Knox, who was as little ac- 
customed to wait as Louis XIV., stumped in- 
to the drawing-room, to demand an order 
upon the gamekeeper’swife for Vane Trevor’s 
revolver. 

“ Vane Trevor come ?” exclaimed Clara. 

“ I want a note,” cried Howard. 

“We shall he^ all about the quarrel,” ob- 
served the old lady emphatically, and with a 
mysterious nod, to her daughter. 

“ I won’t be kept here all day,” cried Master 
Howard, with a stamp. 

“ Well, wait a moment,” cried Clara, “and 
you shall have the other box of bon-bons. I’ll 
ring and send Brooks ; but you’ve to tell me 
where Vane Trevor is.” 

“ No I won’t till I get the bon-bons.” 

Miss Clara was on the point of bursting 
forth into invective, but being curious, she 
did not choose a rupture, and only said 

“ And why not, pray ?” 

“ Because you cheated me of the shilling 
you promised me the same way, and I told all 
the servants, and they all said you were a 
beast.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean, sir.” 

“ You do^ right well,” he replied, “you ask- 
ed me to tell you all about the tutor, and when 
I did you said it was not worth a farthing, 
and you would not give the shilling you pro- 
mised, that was cheating ; you cheat ? ” 

“ Do you hear him, mamma ?” 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


55 


“ Howard, my dear ! wliat’s all this ? Tut, 
tut T’ exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox. 

The arrival of the hon-bons, however, did 
more to re-establish peaceful relations ; and 
the boy, who was anxious to get away, de- 
livered his news as rapidly as he couldr. 

“Yes, Vane Trevor’s come. When I and 
Herbert were in the long larch walk he met 
us, and they seemed very glad to meet.” 

“ Ah I Like people who knew one another 
before ?” asked Miss Clara, eagerly, in tones 
little above a whisper. 

“Yes, and Vane called Herbert, Mauhray — 
yes he did.” 

'•’‘Mauhray^ Are you quite sure of that?” 
demanded the elder lady, peering into his face 
and forgetting her dignity in the intensity of 
her curiosity. 

“ Yes, that I am, quite sure,” replied the 
boy wagging his head, and then spinning him- 
self round on his heel. 

“ Be quietj sir,” hissed Miss Clara, clutching 
him by the arm ; “ answer me, — now do be a 
good boy and we’ll let you away in a minute. 
How do you remember the name was Maubray, 
and not some other name like Maubray ?” 

“ Because I remember Sir Richard Mau- 
bray that you and mamma’s always talking 
about.” 

“ We’re not always talking about him,” said 
Clara. 

“ No, sir, we’re wo^,” repeated the matron, 
severely. 

“ I’ll tell you no more, if your both so cross. 
I wow’^,” retorted Master Howard, as distinctly 
as the bonbons would allow him. 

“ Well, well^ will you have done, and answer 
my question ? Did he call him Maubray often?” 
repeated Clara. 

“ Yes — no. He did^ though — he called him 
Maubray twice. I’m sure of that.” 

Mother and daughter exchanged glances at. 
this point, and Mrs. Kincton made a very slow 
little bow with compressed lips, and her dark 
eyes steadily fixed on her daughter, and then 
there was a little “ h’m 1” 

“ And they seemed to know one another 
before ? ” said Mrs. Kincton Knox. 

“Yes, I told you that before.” 

“ And glad to meet ?” she continued. 

“ Yes, that is. Vane. I donH think Herbert 
was.” 

Again the ladies interchanged a meaning 
glance. 

“ Where is Vane Trevor now ?” inquired 
the elder lady, gathering up her majestic man- 
ner again. 

“ He was talking to the governor at the hall- 
door.” 

“ Oh 1 then we shall see him in a moment,” 
said Mrs. Kincton Knox. 

“ Mind now, Howard, you’re not to say one 
word to Mr. Herbert or to Vane Trevor about 
your telling us anything,” added Miss Clara. 

“ Ain’t I though? 1 just will, both of them, 
my man, unless you pay me my shilling,” re- 
plied Master Howard. 

“ Mamwia do you hear hu*. I” exclaimed Miss 
Clara in a piteous fury. 


“ What do you' mean^ sir ?” interposed' his 
mamma vigorously, for she was nearly as much 
frightened as the young lady. 

“ I mean I’ll tell them ; yes I will^ I’m 
going,” and he skipped with a horrid grimace, 
and his thumb to his nose, toward the 
door. 

Come hack, sir ; how dare you?” almost 
screamed Miss Clara. 

“ Here, sir, take your shilling,” cried Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, with a stamp on the floor and 
flashing eye, fumbling hurriedly at her purse 
to produce the coin in question. “ There it 
is, sir, and remember 

Whether the oracular “ remember” was a 
menace or an entreaty I know not ; but the 
young gentleman fixed the coin in his eye 
after the manner of an eyeglass, and with 
some horrid skips and a grin of triumph at 
Miss Clara, he made his exit. 

“ Where can he learn those vile, low tricks 7” 
exclaimed Miss Clara. “ I don’t believe there 
is another such boy in England. He’ll disgrace 
us, you’ll find, and he’ll kill we, I know.” 

“ He has been extremely troublesome ; and 
I’ll speak to him by-and-bye,” said the 
matron. 

“ Speakj indeed ; much he cares 1” 

“ I’ll make him care, though.” 

There was a little silence, and the ladies 
mentally returned to the more momentou.s 
topic from which the extortion of Howard 
Seymour had for a moment diverted them. 

“ What do you think of it ?” murmured Mrs. 
Kincton Knox. 

“ Oh I I think there’s but one thing to 
think,” answered Miss Clara. 

“ I look upon it as perfectly conclusive ; and, 
in fact, his appearance tallies so exactly with 
the descriptions we have heard that we hardly 
needed all this corroboration. As it is, I am 
satisfied.” 

At this moment the door opened, and Vane 
Trevor was announced. 


•a 


CHAPTER XXNIY. 

TREVOE AXD MAUBRAY IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

Vane Trevor was a remote cousin, and so re- 
ceived as a kinsmen ; he entered and was 
greeted smilingly. 

“We have secured such a treasure since wo 
saw you, a tutor for my precious Howard ; and 
such a young man — I can’t tell you Aa^what 
I think of him.” (That, perhaps, was true.) 
“ He’s so accomplished.” 

“ Accomplished — is he ?” said Trevor. 

“ Well, not perhaps in the common accepta- 
tion of the term, that I know of, but I referred 
particularly to that charming accomplishment 
of reading aloud with feeling and point, you 
know, so sadly neglected, and yet so condu- 
cive to real enjoyment and one’s appreciation 
of good authors, when cultivated. You would 


56 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


liardly believe what a resource it is tons poor 
solitaries. I am quite in love ■with Mr. Her- 
bert ; and I will answer for Clara there ; she 
is as nearly so as a young lady ought to be.” 

Playfulness was not Mrs. Kincton Knox’s 
happiest vein. She was tall, tragic, and un- 
gainly ; and her conscious graciousness made 
one uncomfortable, and her smile was intimi- 
dating. He certainly does read charmingly,” 
threw in Miss Clara. 

We have grown, I fear,” continued Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, almost too dependent on him 
for the enjoyment of our evenings ; and I 
sometimes say, quite seriously to my girl 
there, Clara, Ido trust we are not spoiling 
Mr. Herbert.” 

He does not look like a spoiled child — 
rather sad and seedy, doesn’t he?” replied 
Vane Trevor. 

Tut — does he ?” said Miss Clara. 

You’ve seen him, then?” supplemented 
her mother. 

“ Yes ; had that honour as I mounted the 
steep walk — ^how charming that walk is — 
among the fir-trees. But I did not see any- 
thing very unusual about him.” 

“ I can only say I like him extremely ob- 
served Mrs. Kincton Knox, in a tone which 
‘concluded debate. 

And what do you say. Miss Knox ?” in- 
quired Vane Trevor, with one of his arch 
cackles. 

No ; young ladies are not to say all they 
think, like us old people,” interposed Mrs. 
Knoxj ^‘but he’s a very agreeable young 
man.” 

“ Is he ?” said Vane Trevor, with irrepressi- 
ble amazement. “That’s the first time by 
Jove I I ever heard poor Maubray” — and here- 
upon he stopped, remembering that Mau- 
bray’s identity was a secret, and he looked, 
perhaps, a little foolish. 

Mrs. Kincton Knox coughed a little, though 
she was glad to be quite sure that Mr. Wyn- 
ston Maubray was safe under her roof, and did 
not want him or Vane Trevor to know that 
she knew it. She therefore coughed a little 
grandly, and also looked a little put out. 
But Miss Clara, with admirable coolness, said 
quite innocently — 

“What of Mr. Maubray? What have you 
heard of him ? do tell us. How is poor Sir 
Ptichard? We never saw his son, you know, 
here ; and is the quarrel made up ?” 

“ That’s just what I was going to tell you 
about,” said Vane Trevor, scrambling rather 
clumsily on his legs again after his tumble. 
“Not the least chance — none in the world — 
of a reconciliation. And the poor old fellow, 
in one of his fits of passion, got a fit, by Jove, 
and old Sprague at Cambridge told me one 
half his body is perfectly dead, paralytic, you 
know, and he can’t last ; so Wynston, you see, 
is more eligible than ever” 

“Poor old man! you ought not to speak 
with so much levity,” said Mrs. Kincton 
Knox. “ I did not hear a word of it — ^how 
horrible ! And when had poor Sir Bichard his 
paralytic stroke?” 


“About a week ago. He knew some peo- 
ple yesterday; but they say he’s awfully 
shaken, and his face all — ^you know — ^pulled 
up on one side, and hanging down at the oth- 
er; old Sprague says, a horrible object; by 
Jove, you can’t help pitying him, though he 
was a fearful old screw.” 

“ Melancholy 1 — and he was such a hand- 
some man 1 Dear me ! Is his son like him ?” 
said Mrs Kincton Khox ruefully. 

“ Why, not particularly just now. They 
say the two sides of his face are pretty much 
alike ; and his right limbs are about as lively 
as his left ;” and Vane Trevor cackled very 
agreeably over this sally. 

“ So I should hope, Mr. Trevor,” said the 
matron of the high nose and dark brows with 
a gloomy superiority, “ and if there is any 
objection to answering my question, I should 
rather not hear it jested upon, especially with so 
shocking a reference to Sir Eichard’s calamity 
— ^whom I knew, poor man 1 when he was as 
strong and as good-looking as you are.” 

“ But seriously,” said Miss Clara, who saw 
that her mother had not left herself room to 
repeat her question, “ What is he like V is he 
light or dark, or tall or short — or what ?” 

“ Well, he’s dark at night, you know, when 
he’s put out his candle, afld light enough in 
the daytime, when the sun’s shining, and he’s 
decidedly short sometimes — in his temper, I 
mean — ^he, he, he ! — and tall in his talk al- 
ways,^’ replied Vane Trevor, and he enjoyed a 
very exhilarating laugh at his witty conceits. 

“ Ymi used to be capable of a little conver- 
sation,” said the matron grandly. “ You seem 
to have abandoned yourself to— -to ” 

“ To chaff jOM were going to say,” suggested 
Vane, waggishly. 

“No, certainly not, that’s a slang phrase 
such as is not usual among ladies ; nor ever 
spoken at Kincton,” retorted the old lady. 

“ Well, it is though, whenever I’m here,” 
he replied agreeably. “But I’ll really tell 
you all I can ; there’s nothing very remark- 
able in his appearance ; he’s rather tall, very 
light ; he has light hair, blue eyes, pretty good 
bat.” 

“What’s that?” demanded the elder lady. 

“He handles the willow pretty well, and 
would treat you to a tolerably straight, well 
pitched slow underhand.” 

“ I think you intimated that you were about 
making yourself intelligible ?” interposed Mrs. 
Kincton Knox. 

“ And don’t you understand me ?” inquired 
Vane Trevor of Miss Clara. 

“Yes, I think its cricket, ain’t it?” she 
replied. 

“ Well, you see I was intelligible ; yes, 
cricket, of course,” replied Vane. 

“ I can’t say, I’m sure, where Miss Kincton 
Knox learned those phrases ; it certainly was 
not in this drawing-room,” observed her 
mamma, with a gloomy severity. 

“ Well, I mean he’s a tolerable good crick- 
eter, and he reads poetry, and quarrels with 
his father, and he’s just going to step into 
the poor old fellow’s shoes, for, jesting apart, 


ALL IN THE DAEF 


lie really is in an awful state from all I can 
hear.” 

“ Is it thought he may linger long ?” in- 
quired Mrs. Kincton Knox ; “ though, indeed, 
poor man, it is hardly desirable he should, 
from all you say.” 

Anything but desirable. I fancy he’s very 
shaky indeed, not safe for a week — ^may go 
any day — that’s what Sprague says, and he’s 
awfully anxious his son should come and see 
him; don’t you think he ought?” said Mr. 
Vane Trevor. 

“ That depends,” said the old lady thought- 
fully, for the idea of her bird in the hand flit- 
ting suddenly away at Old Sprague’s whistle, 
to the bush of uncertainty, was uncomfortable 
and alarming. ^‘I have always understood 
that in a case like poor Sir Richard’s nothing 
can be more unwise, and, humanely speaking, 
more certain to precipitate a fatal catastrophe 
than a — a — adopting any step likely to be at- 
tended with agitation. Nothing of the kind, 
at least, ought to be hazarded for at least six 
weeks or so, I should say, and not even then 
unless the patient has rallied very decidedly, 
and in such a state as the miserable man now 
is, a reconciliation would be a mere delusion. 
I should certainly say no to a>y such proposi- 
tion, and I can’t think how Dr. Sprague could 
contemplate such an experiment in any other 
light than as a possible murder. 

At this moment the drawing-room door 
opened, and William Maubray’s pale and sad 
face appeared at it. 

“ Howard says you wished to see me ?” said 
he. 

We are very happy, indeed, to see you,” 
replied the old lady, graciously. Pray come 
in and join us, Mr. Herbert.-, Mr. Herbert, 
allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Trevor. 
You have heard us speak of Mr. Vane Trevor, 
of Revington?” 

I had the pleasure — I met him on his way 
here, and we talked — and — and — I know him 
quite well,” said William, blushing, but com- 
ing out with his concluding sentence quite 
stoutly, for before Vane Trevor’s sly gaze 
he would have felt like a trickster if he had 
not. 

But the ladies were determined to supect 
nothing, and Mrs. Knox observed — 

^^We make acquaintance very quickly in 
the country — a ten minutes’ walk together. 
Mr. Herbert, would you object to poor How- 
ard’s having a holiday? — and, pray, join us at 
lunch, and you really must not leave us now.” 

« I — oh ! very happy — ^yes — a holiday — cer- 
sainly,” replied he, like a man whose thoughts 
were a little scattered, and he stood leaning 
on the back of a chair, and showing, as both 
ladies agreed, by his absent manner and pale 
and saddened countenance, that Vane Trevor 
had been delivering Doctor Sprague’s message, 
desiring his presence at the death-bed of the 
departing baronet, 

0 — < 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THEY CONVERSE. 

‘^We were discussing a knotty point, Mr. 
Herbert, when you arrived,” said Mrs. Kincton 
Knox. “ I say that nothing can warrant an 
agitating ^ intrusion upon a sick bed. Mr. 
Trevor here was mentioning a case — a patient 
in a most critical state — who had an unhappy 
quarrel with his son. The old gentleman, a 
baronet, is now in a most precarious state.” 
Miss Clara stole a glance at William, who was 
bearing it like a brick. “ A paralytic stroke ; 
and they talked of sending for his son ! Was 
ever such madness heard of? If they want to 
kill the old man outright, they could not go 
more direct to their object. I happen to know 
something of that awful complaint. My dar- 
ling Clara’s grandfather, my beloved father, 
was taken in that way — a severe paralytic 
attack, from which he was slowly recovering, 
and a servant stupidly dropped a china cup 
containing my dear father’s gruel, and broke 
it — a kind of thing which always a little ex- 
cited him — and not being able to articulate 
distinctly, or in any way adequately to express 
his irritation, he had, in about twenty minutes 
after the occurrence, a second seizure, which 
quite prostrated him, and in fact he never 
spoke intelligibly after, nor were we certain 
that he recognised one of his immediate family. 
So trifling are the ways, so mysterious — h — 
hem ! — and apparently inadequate the causes, 
which of course, under Divine regulation, in 
paralytic affections, invariably overpower tho 
patient. Now, what I say is this, don’t you 
think a son, in such a case, instead of obtrud- 
ing himself at the sick man’s bedside, ought 
to wait quietly for a month or two — quietly, I 
would say, in France or wherever he is, and to 
allow his father just to rally ?” 

William had been looking rather [^drearily 
on the carpet during this long stateinent, and 
I am afraid he had hardly listened to it as 
closely as he ought, and on being appealed to 
on the subject he did the best he could, and 
answered — 

“ It’s an awful pity these quarrels.” 

“ He knows something of the case, too,” 
interposed Vane Trevor. 

The ladies looked, one upon the flowers in 
the vase, and the other out of the window, in 
painful expectation of an immediate eclairck- 
sement. But William only nodded a little 
frown at Trevor, to warn him off the dangerous 
ground he was treading, and he went on. 

“ The blame is always thrown on the young 
fellows ; it isn’t fair:” William spoke a little 
warmly. “It’s the fault of the old ones a 
great deal oftener, they are so dictatorial and 
unreasonable, and expect you to have no will 
or conscience, or body or soul, except as they 
please. They forgot that they were young 
themselves once, and would not have submit- 
ted to it ; and then they talk of you as a rebel, 
by Jove I and a — ^parricide almost, for pre- 
suming to have either a thought or a scruple, 
or On a sudden William perceived that. 


58 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


fired with his subject, he was declaiming a 
little more vehemently than was usual in draw- 
ing-rooms, and his inspiration failed him. 

‘‘ Hear, hear, hear T’ cried Trevor, with a 
tiny clapping of his hands, and a laugh. 

Miss Clara looked all aglow with his elo- 
quence, and her mama said grandly — 

There’s truth, I’m sorry to say, in your 
remarks. Heaven knows I^ve suffered from 
unreasonableness, if ever mortal has. Here 
we sit in shadow of that great ugly, positively 
ugly tree there, and there it seems it must 
stand I I daren’t remove it and Mrs. Kinc- 
ton Knox lifted her head and her chin, and 
looked round like a queen shorn of her regali- 
ties, and inviting the indignant sympathy of 
the well affected. There es, no question of 
it, a vast deal of unreasonableness and selfish- 
ness among the old. We all feel it,” and she 
happened to glance upon Miss Clara, who was 
smiling a little cynically on the snowy ringlets 
of her little white dog. Bijou. She continued 
fiercely, “ And to return to the subject. I 
should think no son, who did not wish to kill 
his father, and to have the world believe so, 
would think of such a thing.” 

Killing’s a serious business,” observed 
Trevor. 

A man killed,” observed Mrs. Kincton 
Knox, is a man lost to society. His place 
knows him no more. All his thoughts 
perish.” 

“ And they’re not often any great loss,” 
moralized Trevor. 

Very true 1” acquiesced Mrs. Kincton 
Knox, with alacrity, recollecting how little 
rational matter her spouse ever contributed to 
the council board of Kincton. Still, I main- 
tain, a son would not like to be supposed to 
have caused the death of his father. That is, 
unless my views of human nature are much 
too favourable. What do you think, Mr. Her- 
bert?” and the lady turned her prominent 
dark eyes, with their whites so curiously 
veined, encouragingly upon the young man. 

“ I think if I were that fellow,” he replied, 
and Mrs. Kincton Knox admired his diplo- 
macy, “ I should not run the risk.” 

Quite right !” approved the lady radiantly. 

Trevor looked at his watch and stood up. 

“ Your trunk and things, gone up to your 
room, Vane?” inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox. 

I’ve no trunk ; ha, ha ! and no things — 
he, he, he I no, upon my honour. I can’t stay, 
really j I’m awfully sorry ; but my plans were 
all upset, and I’m going back to the station, 
and must walk at an awful pace top ; only 
half an hour — a very short visit ; well, yes, 
but I could not deny myself — short as it is — 
and I hope to look in upon you again soon.” 

It’s very ill-natured, I think,” said Miss 
Clara. 

“Very,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, yet both 
ladies were very well pleased to be relieved of 
Vane Trevor’s agreeable society. He would 
have been in the way — ^unutterably de trop. 
His eye upon their operations would have been 
disconcerting ; he would have been taking the 
- — the tutor long walks, or trying, perhaps, to 


flirt with Clara, as ho did two years ago, and 
never leaving her to herself. So the regrets 
and upbraidings with which they followed 
Vane Trevor, who had unconsciously been 
helping to mystify them, were mild and a 
litile hypocriticaL 


o- 


CHAFTEE XXXVT. 

THE EVENING. 

William Maubuay was bidden to luncheon, 
and was sad and abstemious at that pleasant 
refection, and when it was over Mrs. Kincton 
Knox said — 

“ My dear Clara, it’s quite out of the ques- 
tion my going with you to-day, I’m suffering 
so — that horrid neuralgia.” , 

“ Oh ! darling ! how sorry I am I” exclaimed 
Miss Clara, with a look of such beautiful pity 
and affection as must have moved William 
Maubray if he had tbe slightest liking for 
ministering angels. “ What can 1 do for you ? 
You must, you know, try something.” 

“ No,- love, no ; nature — nature and rest. I 
shall lie down for a little ; but you must have 
your ride all the same to Coverdale, and I am 
certain Mr. Herbert will be so kind as to 
accompany you. 

William Maubray would have given a great 
deal for a solitary ramble ; but, of course, he was 
only too happy, and the happy pair scampered ^ 
off on their ponies side by side, and two hours 
after Miss Clara walked into her mamma’s 
room, looking cross and tired, and sat down 
silently in a chair, before the cheval glass. 

“ Well, dear?” inquired her mother, inquisi- 
tively. 

“ Nothing, mamma. I hope your head’s 
better ! ’ 

“ My head ? Oh I yes, better, thanks. But 
— a — ^liow did you like your ride ?” 

“ Very stupid,” answered the young lady. 

“ I suppose you’ve been in one of your 
tempers, and never spoke a word — and you 
know he’s so shy ? Will you ever learn. Miss 
Kincton Knox, to command your miserable 
temper ?” exclaimed her mother very grimly, 
but the young lady only flapped the folds of 
her skirt lazily with her whip. 

“ You quite mistake, mamma, I’m not cross ; 
I’m only tired. I’m sorry you did not let him 
go off to the sick old man. He’s plainly 
pining to go and give him his gruel and his 
medicine.” 

“ Did he speak of him ?” asked the old lady. 

“No, nor of anything else ; but he’s plainly 
thinking of him and thinks he has murdered 
him — at least he looks as if he was going to 
be hanged, and I don’t care if he was,” 
answered Miss Clara. 

“You must make allowances, my dear 
Clara, said she. “ You forget that the cir- 
cumstances are very distressing. 

“ Very cheerful I should say. Why, he 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


59 


hates his father, I dare say. Did not you 
hear the picture he drew of him, and it’s all 
hypocrisy, and I don’t believe his father has 
really anything to do with his moping.” 

“ And what do you suppose is the cause of 
it ?” inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox. 

“ I really can’t tell ; perhaps he’s privately 
married, or in love with a milliner, i)erhaps, 
and that has been the cause of this quarrrel,” 
she said with an indolent mockery that might 
be serious, and, at all events, puzzled the 
elder lady. 

Ho ! stuff, my dear child 1” exclaimed her 
mother with an uneasy scorn. “You had 
better call Brookes and get your habit off. 
And where did you leave him ? 

“At the hall door,” replied Miss Clara, as 
she walked out of the room. 

“H’m, stuff 1” repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, 
still rnore uneasily, for she knew that Clara 
had her wits about her. “ Married, indeed I 
It’s probable just this — Vane Trevor has come 
here with a foolish long exhortation from 
Doctor — what’s his name ? — Sprague — and up- 
set the young man a little, and perhaps agi- 
tated him. He’ll be quite a different person 
to-morrow.” 

And so indeed it proved. Whatever his 
secret feelings, William Maubray wa's exter- 
nally a great deal more like himself. In the 
state which follows such a shock as William 
had experienced before the monotony of sad- 
ness sets in, there is sometimes an oscillation 
of spirits from extreme depression to an equally 
morbid hilarity, the symbol of excitement 
only. So in a long ride, which William took 
with the young lady to-day, accompanied by 
his pupil, who, on his pony, entertained him- 
self by pursuing the sheep on the hill side. 
Miss Clara found him very agreeable, and also 
ready at times to j)hilosophize, eloquently and 
sadly, in the sort of Byronic vein into which 
bitter young lovers will break. So the sky 
was brightening, and William who suspected 
nothing of the peculiar interest with which 
his varying moods were observed, was yet 
flattered by the gradual but striking improve- 
ment of his relations, accepted the interest 
displayed by the ladies as a feminine indica- 
tion of compassion and appreciation, and ex- 
pressed a growing confidence and gratitude, 
the indirect expressions of which they, per- 
haps, a little misapprehended. 

In the evening Mrs. Kincton Knox called 
again for the “ Lord of Burleigh,” not being 
fertile in resource — Miss Clara turned her 
chair toward the fire, and with her feet on a 
boss, near the fender, leaned back, with a 
handscreen in her fingers, and listened. 

“ That is what I call poetry 1” exclaimed 
the matron with the decision of a brigadier, 
and a nod of intimidating approbation, toward 
William, “ and so charmingly read 1” 

“I’m afraid Miss Kincton Knox must have 
grown a little tired of it,” suggested William. 

“ One can never tire of poetry so true to 
nature,” answered Miss Clara. 

“ She’s all romance, that creature,” confi- 
dentially murmured her mamma, with a com- 
passionating smile. 


“ What is it ?” inquired Miss Clara. 

“You’re not to hear, but we were saying, 
weren’t we, Mr. Herbert ? that she has not a 
particle of romance in her nature,” replied her 
mamma with her gloomy pleasantry. 

“No romance certainly, and I’m afraid no 
common sense either,” replied the young lady 
naively. 

“ Do you write poetry?” asked the old lady 
of William. 

“ You need not ask him, he could not read 
as he did, if he did not write,” said Miss Clara 
turning round in an eager glow, which mo- 
mentary enthusiasm some other feeling over- 
powered, and she turned away again a little 
bashfully. 

“ You do write, I see it confessed in your 
eyes,” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox. “He 
does, Clara, you’re right. I really think some- 
times she’s a — a — fairy.” 

“ Ask him, mamma, to read us some of his 
verses,” pleaded Clara, just a little timidly. 

“ You really must, Mr. Herbert — ^no, no. I’ll 
hear of no excuses ; our sex has its privileges, 
you know, and where we say must, opposition 
vanishes.” 

“Eeally,” urged William, “any little at- 
tempts of mine are so unworthy ” — 

“We must, and will have them to-morrow 
evening; dear me, how the hours do fly. You 
have no idea, Clara dear, how late it is, quite 
dreadful. I’m really angry with you, Mr. 
Herbert, for beguiling us into such late hours.” 

So the party broke up, and when Mrs. 
Kincton Knox entered her daughter’s room 
where she was in a dishevelled stage of pre- 
paration for bed; she said, her maid being 
just despatched on a message — 

“ I really wish, mamma, you’d stop about 
that Lord of Burleigh ; I saw him look quite 
oddly when you asked for it again to-night, 
and he must know, unless he’s a fool, tiiat 
you don’t care two pence about poetry, and 
you’ll just make him think we know who he 
is.” 

“ Pooh 1 nonsense, Clara I don’t be ridicu- 
lous,” said her mother, a little awkwardly, for 
she had a secret sense of Clara’s superiority. 
“ I don’t want you to teach me what I’m to 
do, I hope, and who brought him here, pray, 
and investigated, and, in fact — here’s Brookes 
back again — and you know we are to have his 
own verses to-morrow night, so we don’t want 
that, nor any more, if you’d rather not, and 
you can’t possibly be more sick of it than I 
am.” 

So, on the whole well pleased, the ladies 
betook themselves to their beds, and Mrs. 
Kincton Knox lay long awake, constructing 
her clumsy castles in the air. 

o 

CHAPTEE XXXVII. 

TANU TREVOR AT THE GATE OP GILROYD. 

Next morning, at breakfast, as usual, the post- 
bag brought its store of letters and news, and 


60 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


Mrs. Ilincton Knox dispensed its contents in 
her usual magisterial manner. There were 
two addressed in Vane Trevor’s handwriting ; 
one to the tutor, which the matron recognized, 
as she sent it round to him in Howard’s hand, 
the other to herself. 

Pray, no ceremony with us,” said the lady 
of the house, with a gorgeous complacency ; 

read your letter here, Mr. Herbert ; we are 
all opening ours, you see.” 

“ So William Maubray, with an odd little 
flutter at his heart, opened the letter, which he 
knew would speak of those of whom it agi- 
tated him to think. 

It was dated from Kevington, whither, with 
a sort of home siokness new to him, Trevor 
had returned almost directly after his visit to 
Kincton. 

Vane Trevor had, without intending it, left, 
perhaps, on Maubray’s mind an impression, 
that a little more had occurred than the pro- 
gress of the drama could actually show. He 
had not yet committed himself irrevocably ; 
but he had quite made up his ipaind to take 
the decisive ^tep, and only awaited the oppor- 
tunity. 

The day after his arrival he joined the Gil- 
royd ladies as they left the Eectory, where — 
for the great law of change and succession is 
at work continually and everywhere- — the 
Mainwarings were no more, and good old 
Doctor Wagget was now installed, and begin- 
ning to unpack and get his books into their 
shelves, and he and old Miss Wagget were 
still nodding, and^ kissing their hands, and 
smiling genially on the door-steps on their 
departing visitors. 

Just here Vane Trevor lighted upon them. 
How lovely Miss Violet Darkwell looked! 
Was not that a blush, o"r only the rosy shadow 
under her bonnet? 

‘‘A blush, by Jove I” thought Vane Trevor, 
and h^ felt as elated as, a few weeks 
before, he would have been had he got a 
peerage. 

So they stopped in a little group on the 
road under the parsonage trees ; and, the usual 
greeting accomplished, the young man accom- 
panied them on their way toward Gilroyd, and 
said he — 

“ I looked in the other day, on my way back 
from Lowton, on my cousins, the Kincton 
Knoxes, at Kincton, you know, and, by Jove ! 
I met — who do you think ?” 

^^I haven’t an idea,” replied Miss Dark- 
well, to whom he had chiefly addressed him- 
self. 

“ Anne Dowlass, I dare say, my roguish, 
runaway little girl,” suggested Miss Perfect 
inquisitively. 

Oh no 1 not a girl,” answered Trevor. 

Well, it w;as the Bishop of Shovel-on- 
Headly,” said she firmly. 

“ No ; by Jove 1 I don’t think you’d guess 
in half an hour. Upon my honour I He ! he 1 
he I Well, what do you think of Maubray ? ” 

“ Wiiliam?” repeated Miss Perfect, faintly, 
and in a tone such as would indicate sudden 
pain. 


“Yes, by Jove! the very man, upon my 
honour — as large as life. He’s 

Suddenly, Vane Trevor recollected that he 
was not to divulge the secret of his being 
there in the office of tutor. 

“Well, he’s — what is he doing?” urged 
Annt Dinah. 

“ He’s — he’s staying there ; and, upon my 
honour — ^you won t tell, I know, but, upon my 
honour — the old lady, and — he ! he ! he ! — the 
young one are both — I give, you my honour — 
in love with him !” 

And Trevor laughed shrilly. • 

“ But, I really ain’t joking — I’m quite seri- 
ous, I do assure you. The old woman told 
me, in so many words almost, that Clara’s in 
love with him — awfully in love, by Jove !” 

Trevor’s narrative was told in screams of 
laughter. 

“ And you know, she’s really, awfully pretty : 
a stunning girl she was a year or two ago : 
and — and — you know that kind of thing could 
not be — ^both in the same house — and the girl 
in love with him — and nothing come of it. 
It’s a case, I assure you ; and it will be a 
match, as sure as I’m walking beside you.” 

“ H’m !” ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with a 
quick little nod and closed lips, looking 
straight before her. 

“ How pretty that light is, breaking on the 
woods ; how splendid the colours j” said Miss 
Darkwell. 

“Yes — ^well. It really w now, jolly V re- 
sponded Vane Trevor ; and he would have 
made a pretty little speech on that text ; but 
the presence of Miss Perfect, of course, put 
that out of the question. 

Miss Perfect was silent during nearly all the 
rest of the walk ; and the conversation re- 
mained to the young people, and Vane Trevor 
was as tenderly outspoken as a lunatic in his 
case dare be under restraint and observation. 

They had reached the poplars, only a stone’s 
throw from the gate of Gilroyd, when Miss 
Perfect asked i.bruptly, How was the young 
man looking ?” 

Vane Trevor had just ended a description 
of old Putties, the keeper of the “ Garter,” 
whom he had seen removed in a drunken appo- 
plexy to the hospital yesterday ; and Aunt 
Dinah’s question for a moment puzzled him, 
but he quickly recovered the thread of the 
by-gone allusion. 

“ Oh ! Maubray ? I beg pardon. Maubray 
was looking very well, I think ; a little like a 
hero in love, of course, you know, but very 
well. He was just going to lunch- with the 
ladies when I left, and looked precious hungiy, 
I can tell you. I don’t think you need trouble 
yourself about Maubray, Miss Perfect, I assure 
you you needn’t, for he’s taking very good 
care of himself, every way, by Jove.” 

“I donH trouble myself,” said Aunt Dinah, 
rather sternly, interrupting Trevor’s agreeable 
cackle. “ He has quite broken with me, as I 
already informed you — quite ^ and I don’t care 
who knows it. I shall never , interfere with 
him or his concerns more. He shall never 
enter that gate, or see my face more ; that’s no 


ALL liT THE DAEK. 


61 


great iDrivation, of course ; bat I doift wish 
his death or destruction, little as he deserves 
of me, and that’s the reason I asked how he 
looked ; and, having heard, I don’t desire to 
hear more about him or to mention his name 
again.’^ 

And Miss Perfect stared ‘on Vane Trevor 
with a grim decision, which the young man 
was a little puzzled how to receive, and, with 
the gold head of his cane to his lip, looked up 
at a cloud, with a rueful and rather vacant 
countenance, intended to express something of 
a tragic sympathy. 

He walked with them to the pretty i^orch ; 
hut Aunt Dinah was still absent and grim ; 
and bid him good-bye, and shook hands at 
the door, without asking him in ; and though 
he seemed to linger a little, there was nothing 
for it, but to take his departure, rather vexed. 

That evening was silent and listless at Gil- 
royd, and though Miss Perfect left the parlour 
early, I think there was a seance^ for, as she 
lay in her bed, Violet heard signs of life in 
the study beneath her, and Miss Perfect w^as 
very thoughtful, and old Winnie Dobbs very 
sleepy, all next day. 

It was odd, now that Vane Trevor had 
come to set his heart upon marrying Violet 
Darkwell, that his confidence in his claims, 
which he would have thought it simple 
lunacy to question a few weeks ago, began to 
waver. He began to think how that gentle- 
manlike Mr. Sergeant Darkwell, with the 
bright and thoughtful face, who was, no 
doubt, ambitious, would regard the rental 
and estate of Revington with those onerous 
charges upon it ; how Miss Perfect, with her 
whims and fancies, and positive temper, might 
view the whole thing ; and, lastly, whether 
he was he was quite so certain of the young 
lady’s “ inclinations,” as the old novels have 
it, as he felt a little time before : and so he 
lay awake in an agitation of modesty, quite 
new to him. 


• 0 - 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

VANE TREVOR WALKS DOWN TO SEE MISS VIOLET. 

Lookino at himself in his glass next morning. 
Vane Trevor pronounced the coup deceit “aw- 
fully seedy. This sort of thing, by Jove, it 
will never do, it would wear out any fellow ; 
where’s the good in putting off ? there’s no 
screw loose, there’s nothing against me ; I 
hope -I stand pretty well here — ^hang it — I’ll 
walk down to-day,” and he looked over the 
slopes to sunny Gilroyd, “ and if a good oppor- 
tunity turns up. I’ll speak to Miss Darkwell.” 

And though he had taken care, in secret 
mercy to his nerves, to state his resolve hypo- 
thetically, his heart made two or three strange 
throbs, and experienced a kind of sinliing like 
that said to attend, on the eve of battle, an 
order to prepare for action. 


Accordingly, before twelve (f clock, Vane 
Trevor walked into the porch of Gilroyd, and 
rang the bell beside the open door, and stood 
with the gold head of his cane to his chin, 
looking on the woodlands toward Revington, 
and feeling as he might have felt in an omin- 
ous dream. 

“ Miss Perfect at home ?” he inquired of 
the maid, with a haggard simper. 

“ She was in the drawing-room,” into which 
room, forgetting the preliminary of announce- 
ment, he pushed his way. She was not there, 
but he heard her talking to Winnie Dobbs in 
the gallery. 

“Just passing by; afraid I’m very trouble- 
some, but I could not resist,” pleaded Vane 
Trevor, as he glanced over Miss Perfect’s gray 
silk shoulder, and somewhat old-fashioned 
collar, toward the door, expecting, perhaps, 
another apparition. 

“ I’m very glad you’ve come, Mr. Trevor. — 
Shall we sit down, for I — I want to ask you 
to satisfy me upon a point.” 

This was a day of agitations for Trevor, 
and his heart made an odd little dance, and a 
sudden drop, and though he smiled, he felt 
his cheek grow a little pale. 

“ By Jove I” thought Trevor as he placed 
himself near Aunt Dinah, “ she’ll save me a 
lot of trouble and open the subject all in a 
sentence.” 

He was leaning against the window case, 
and the damask curtains, though somewhat 
the worse of the sun, made a gorgeous dra- 
pery about him, as with folded arms, and 
trying to look perfectly serene, he looked 
down on Miss Perfect’s face. The lady seemed 
to have some little difficulty about speaking, 
and cleared her voice, and looked out of the 
window for help, and all the time the young 
man felt very oddly. At last she said — 

“ I had made up my mind not t6 allude to 
the subject, but I — I-^last night, in fact, 
something occurred which has induced me 
just to ask a question or two.” Aunt Dinah 
paused ; and with rather pale lips. Vane Trevor 
smiled an assurance that he would be too 
happy to answer any question which Miss 
Perfect might please to ask. 

Again a little silence — again the odd sensa- 
tion in Vane’s heart, and the same sicke:^ing 
sense of suspense, and he felt he could not 
stand it much longer. 

“I — I said I would not allude again to 
William Maubray, but I — I have altered that 
resolution. I mean, however, to ask but a 
question or two.” 

“ Oh ? ” was all that Trevor uttered, but he 
felt that he could have wished the old woman 
and William Maubray in a sack at the bottom 
of his best pond at Revington. 

“ I — I wish to know, the Kincton Knoxes, 
aren’t they a leading people rather, in their 
part of the world ?” 

“ Oh, dear, yes. Kincton is one of the best 
places in the county,” ejaculated Trevor, who 
being a kinsman, bore a handsome testimony. 

“And — and — the young lady. Miss Clara 
Knox, she, I suppose, is — is admired ? ” 


62 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


So she is, "by Jore — knovv^, I admired her 
ar^vfully — so admired that the fellows won’t 
let one another marry her, by Jove ! — ^he, he, 
he I Very fine girl, though, and I believe her 
father, or rather her mother, will give her a 
lot of money.” 

Miss Perfect looked on the table, not 
pleased, very thoughtfully, and Vane Trevor 
looked down at her fore-shortened countenance 
listlessly. 

“And — and you spoKe, you remember, of 
an idea that — that in fact it would end in a 
marriagej' resumed Miss Perfect 

“Did I really say? well, but you won’t 
mention what I say, I, upon my honour, 
and quite seriously, I should not wonder a bit. 
It is not altogether what she said, you know, 
Mrs. Kincton Knox, I mean, though that was 
as strong as you could well imagine — ^but her 
manner ; I know her perfectly, and when she 
wishes you to understand a thing ; and I as- 
sure you that’s what she wished me to sup- 
pose — and I really, I can’t understand it ; it 
seems to me perfectly incomprehensible, like 
a sort of infatuation, for she’s one of the 
sharpest women alive, Mrs. Kincton Knox ; 
but, by Jove, both she and Clara, they seem 
to have quite lost their heads about Maubray. 
I never heard anything like it, upon my ho- 
nour.” 

And Trevor, who had by this time quite 
shaken off the chill of his suspense, laughed 
very hilariously, till Aunt Dinah said, with 
some displeasure — 

“ For the life of me, I can’t see anything 
ridiculous in it. William Maubray is better 
connceted than they, and he’s the handsomest 
young man I ever beheld in my life ; and if 
she has money enough of her own, for hotli^ 
I can’t see what objection or difficulty there 
can be.” 

“ Oh 1 certainly — certainly not on those 
grounds ; only what amused me was, there’s 
a disparity ; you know — she’s, by Jove ! She 
es — she’s five years elder, and that’s some- 
thing.” 

“ And — and if it u to be, how 8oon do you 
suppose it likely ? ” asked Miss Perfect, fixing 
her eyes anxiously on him. 

“ Well, you know I know no more than the 
man in the moon ; but if they really mean it, 
I don’t see what’s to delay it,” answered 
Trevor. 

“ Because—because”— hesitated Aunt Dinah, 
“ I have reason to know that if that unfor- 
tunate young man — ^not that I have any rea- 
son to care more than any one else, should 
marry before the lapse of five years, he will 
be utterly ruined, and undone by so doing.” 

Vane Trevor stood expecting an astounding 
revelation, but Aunt Dinah proceeded — 

“And therefore you are his friend — of 
course it’s nothing to me — I thought you 
h might as well hear it, and if you chose to 
take that trouble, let him know,” said Miss 
Perfect. 

He looked a little hard at Miss Perfect, and 
she as steadily on him. 

“ I will, certainly— that is, if you think I 


ought. But — ^but I hope it won’t get me into 
a scrape with the people there.” • 

“ I iZo think you ought,” said Miss Perfect. 

“I — I suppose heHl understand the rea- 
sons ?” suggested Vane Trevor, half interro- 
gratively. 

“ If you say— -I think^ if you say — that I 
said I had reason to know ” — and Aunt Dinah 
paused. 

Vane Trevor, looking a little amazed, re- 
peated — 

“ I’m to say you said you had reason to 
know ?” 

“ YeSy and — and— I think he’ll understand — 
and if he should not, you may say — a — yesj 
you may, it has reached me through Hen- 
bane.” 

“ I beg pardon — through what ? said Vane 
Trevor, inclining his ear. 

“ Henbane,” said Miss Perfect very sharply. 

“Henbane ?” 

“ Fes.” 

“ By Jove I” exclaimed Trevor. 

A considerable silence ensued, during which 
a variety of uncomfortable misgivings respect- 
ing the state of Miss Perfect’s mind, floated 
through his own. He concluded, however, 
that there was some language of symbols 
established between Miss Perfect and her 
nephew, in which Henbane stood for some re- 
fractory trustee, or rich old uncle. 

So he said, more like himself — 

“ Well, I shan’t forget. I’ll take care to 
let him know, and you may depend upon 
me.” 


o* 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

VAXB TREVOR OPENS mS MIND. 

After a silence, Mr. Vane Trevor, whoso 
thoughts were not quite abandoned to Hen- 
bane and his friend William Maubray, but 
had begun to flow in a more selfish channel, 
said — * 

“ Miss Darkwell, I suppose, in the garden ?’^ 

“ Violet’s gone for a few days to our friends, 
the Mainwarings, at their new Rectory ; they 
seem to like it extremely.” , 

“ Oh, do they ? That’s delightful,” said 
Trevor, who looked very dismal. “ And so 
Miss Darkwell is there ?” 

Miss Perfect nodded. 

“I’m — I’m very unlucky. I — I thought 
such a fine day, I — I might have induced you 
both to— to — there’s such a pretty drive to 
AVilton.” 

“ Yes — I know — I’m sure she’d have liked 
it of all things.” 

“ Do you really think so ?” exclaimed the 
young man, inquiringly. “ I wish— I wish 
very much I could — I could flatter myself.” 

Aunt Dinah looked up, and at him earn- 
estly but kindly, and said nothing, and so 
looked down again. There was encourage- 


ALL m THE DAEK. 


63 


ment in that look, and Trevor waxed eloquent. 

“ I — I wish I could — I wish I dare— -I — I 
think her so beautiful. I — I can’t express all 
I think, and I — there’s nothing I would not 
do to make her friends approve — a — a — ^in 
fact I should he so much obliged if I thought^ 
you would wish me well, and be my friend — 
and — and 

And Vane Trevor for want of anything dis- 
tinct to add to all this, came to a pause. 

And Miss Perfect, with a very honest sur- 
prise in her face, said : 

Am I to understand, Mr. Vane Trevor'?” 
and she too came to a stop. 

But with those magical words the floodgates 
of his eloquence were opened once more. 

“ Yes, 1 do. I do indeed. I mean to — ^to 
propose for Miss Darkwell, if — ^if I were sure 
•that her friends liked the idea, and that I 
could think really she liked me. I — I came 
to-day with the intention of speaking to her.” 

He was now standing erect, no longer lean- 
ing against the window shutter, and holding 
his walking-cane very hard in both hands, and 
impressing Miss Perfect with a conviction of 
his being thoroughly in earnest. 

I — I tell you frankly, Mr. Trevor,” said 
Aunt Dinah, a little flushed with a sympa- 
thetic excitement, and evidently much pleased, 
“ I did not expect this. I — I had fancied 
that you were not a likely person to marry, 
and to say truth, I sometimes doubted whether 
I ought to have allowed your visits here so 
frequently, at least as you have made them for 
the last few weeks. Of course I can see no- 
thing that is not desirable, in fact highly 
advantageous in the proposal you make. Am 
I at liberty to write to Sergeant Darkwell on 
the subject ?” 

Oh ! certainly, exactly what I should wish.” 

“ I'm very sure he will see it in the same 
light that I do. We all know the Trevors of 
Eevington, the position • they have always 
held ; and though I detest the line they took 
in the great civil war, and think your poor 
father had no business helping to introduce 
machinery into this part of the world as he 
did, and I always said so, I yet can see the 
many amiable qualities of his son, and I have 
no doubt that you will make a kind and affec- 
tionate husband. I must, however, tell you 
candidly, that I have never spoken of you to 
Violet Darkwell as a — in fact, in any other 
light than that of an acquaintance, and I can- 
not throw any light upon her feelings. You 
can ascertain them best for yourself. My 
belief is, that a girl should be left quite free 
to accept or decline in such a case, and I know 
that her father thinks exactly as I do.” 

“ I — I may write to Miss Darkwell, do you 
think ? I suppose I had better ?” 

“ JVo, said Miss Perfect, with decision ; 
“ were I you I should much prefer speaking. 
Depend upon it, there’s more to be done by 
speaking. But as you arc acquainted with 
her father, don’t you think you might write to 
him. Violet may return in three days, but 
will not, I think, quite so soon ; and mean- 
v/hile you will have heard from him.” 


“ I think so. I’ll do it, certainly ; and I — 
feel that you’re my friend. Miss Perfect and 
he took her hand, and she took his very 
kindly. 

“I’ve said my say, I highly approve, and 
I’m quite certain her father will also; he 
agrees with me on most points ; he’s a very 
superior man.” 

Vane Trevor, there and then, with Aunt 
Dinah’s concurrence, wrote his letter to Mr. 
Sergeant Darkwell ; and then he walked with 
Aunt Dinah in the garden, talking incessant- 
ly of Violet, and it must be added, very much 
pleased with Miss Perfect’s evident satisfac- 
tion and elation ; and he remained to dinner, 
a situation which two months ago would have 
appeared the most ludicrous and dismal in 
nature, and he gabbled of his lady love, ask- 
ing questions and starting plans of all sorts. 

And time flew so in this tete-d-tete^ that they 
were surprised by the entrance of the house- 
hold with the Bible and Prayer-book ; and 
Mr. Vane Trevor, though not a particularly 
sober minded youth, could not avoid accept- 
ing the role of the absent William Maubray, 
and officiated, . much to the edification of the 
maids, in whose eyes the owner of Eevington 
was a very high personage indeed ; and, the 
chapter ” for that evening delighted and over- 
awed them, and they could hardly believe 
their eyes that the great squire of Eevington 
was pent up with them in that small drawing- 
room, and kneeling and saying “amen,” and 
repeating the Lord’s Prayer after Miss Per- 
fect, “ as mild and humble ” as one of them- 
selves. 

When he got home to Eevington, not being 
able to tranquilize his mind, he vented his 
excitement upon the two letters which I have 
mentioned as having reached the family of 
Kincton, at the breakfast-table. 

“Eead that, Clara, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Kincton Knox, with a funereal nod and in a 
cautious under-tone. 

Miss Clara read the letter, and when she 
came to the passage which related that poor 
old ' Sir Eichard Maubray had had a second 
and much severer paralytic stroke, and was 
now in articulo^ she raised her eyes for a mo- 
ment to her mother’s, and both for a moment 
looked with a solemn shrewdness into the 
other’s. Miss Clara dropped hers again to the 
letter, and then stole a momentary glance at 
William, who looked as if he were very ill. 

As a man who receives a letter announcing 
that judgment is marked, and bailiffs on his 
track, will hide away the awful crumpled 
note in his pocket, and try to beguile his 
friends by a pallid smile, and a vague and in- 
coherent attempt to join in the conversation, 
so William strove to seem quite unconcerned, 
and 4ihe more he tried the more conscious 
was he of his failure. 


o 


64 


ALL IN THE LAEK 


CHAPTER XL. 

MBS. KIBCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH 
WILLIAM. 

In fact William Maubray bad received a con- 
ceited and exulting letter from Trevor, writ- 
ten in the expansion of liis triumph once 
more as the Lord of Revington, the represen- 
tative of the historic Trevors, the man of tra- 
ditions and prestige^ before whom the world 
bowed down and displayed its treasures, and 
who, being restored to reason and self-estima- 
tion by his conversation with Miss Perfect, 
knew well what a prize he w^as — what a sacri- 
fice he was making, and yet bore and gave 
away all with a splendid magnanimity. 

So as he says, “ it is all virtually settled. I 
have talked fully -with Miss Perfect, a very 
intelligent and superior woman, who looks 
upon the situation just as I could wisji ; and 
I have written announcing my intentions to 
her father, and under such auspices, and with 
the evidence I hope I have, of not being quite 
indifferent where I most wished to please, I 
almost venture to ask for your congratula- 
tions,” &c. 

“ He is quite right, it is all over, she likes 
him, I saw that long ago, I fancied she would 
have been a little harder to please ; they fall 
in love with any fellow that’s tall, and pink, 
and white, and dresses absurdly, and talks like 

a fool, provided he has money — money — d 

ruoney P 

Such were the mutterings of William Mau- 
bray, as he leaned dismally on the window 
of the school-room, and looked out upon the 
sear and thinning foliage of the late autumn. 

“ This is very important — ^this about unfor- 
tunate Sir Richard ; his son will succeed im- 
mediately but he seems a good deal, indeed 
very much agitated, however, it’s a — a great 
point in his favor o^Aerwise.” So said Mrs. 
Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as 
being alone together they could safely talk 
over the missives of the breakfast table. 

I rather think he has been summoned to 
— to the dying man, and he’ll go — ^he must — 
and we shall never see more of him,” said 
Miss Clara, with superb indifference. 

“Yes, of course it may have been, I was 
going to say so,” said her mother, who, how- 
ever, had not seen that view. “ I’ll make him 
come out and walk up and down the terrace 
with me a little, poor young man.” 

“ You’ll do him no good by that,” said the 
young lady, with a sneer. 

“We’ll see that. Miss Kincton Knox; at 
all events, it will do no good sitting here, and 
sneering into the fire ; please sit a little aAvay 
and raise the hand-screen, unless you really 
wish to ruin your complexion.’^ 

“ It can’t be of the least importance to any 
one whether I do or not, certainly not to me,” 
said the young lady, who, however, took her 
advice peevishly. 

“You are one of those conceited young 
persons; pray allow me to speak, I’m your 
mother, and have a right I h6pe to speak in 


this house — who fancy that no one can speak 
-anything but they — I’m not disposed to flatter 
you — I never did flatter you, but I think the 
young man (her voice was lowered here) likes 
you — I do, I’m sure he does. It can’t possi- 
bly be for my sake that he likes coming every 
evening to read all that stuff for us. You 
make no allowance for the position he is in, 
his father dying, in the very crisis of a pain- 
ful domestic quarrel, it must be most uncom- 
fortable ; and then he’s here in a position 
which precludes his uttering any sentiments 
except such as should be found on the lips of 
a resident teacher. I’ve frequently observed 
him on the point of speaking in his real char- 
acter, and chilled in a moment by the recol- 
lection of the apparent distance between us ; 
but I think I know something of countenance, 
and tones, and those indications of feeling, 
which are more and more significant than 
words.” 

Miss Clara made no sign by iook, word, or 
motion ; and after a little pause her mamma 
went on sturdily. 

“ Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and hav- 
ing been, I may say, a good deal admired in 
my day, and married^ not quite as I might have 
been perhaps, but-— but still pretty well. I 
ought to know something more of such mat- 
ters than my daughter^ I think, and I can’t be 
mistaken. I don’t passion^ I say a a 

fancy ^ and that there is I’ll stake my life. If 
you only take the trouble to think you’ll see, 
I hold it quite impossible that a young man 
should be as he is, alone for several weeks in 
a country-house with a person, I will say, of 
your advantages and — and attractions without 
some such feeling, im — possihleP 

Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on 
her fair image in the mirror at the further end 
of the room. 

“ In those rides he and Howard have taken 
with you, I venture to say he has said things 
which I should have understood had I been 
by.” 

“ I told you he never said anything — any- 
thing particular — anything he might not have 
said to any one else,” said the young lady, 
wearily. “ He is evidently very shy, I allow.” 

“ Very I extremely shy,” acquieced her 
mamma, eagerly ; “ and when all these things 
are considered, I don’t think in the time you 
could possibly have expected more.” 

“ I never expected anything,” said Miss 
Clara, with another weary sneer. 

“ Didn’t you ? then I did,” answered the 
matron.' 

Miss Clara simply yawned. 

“ You are in one of your unfortunate tem- 
pers. Don’t you think. Miss Kincton Knox, 
even on the supposition that he is about leav- 
ing our house, that you may as well command 
your — your spirit of opposition and — and ill 
temper, which has uniformly defeated every 
endeavour of mine to — to be of use to you, and 
here you are at eight-and-twenty.” The 
young lady looked round alarmed, but there 
was no listner, “and you seem to have learned 
nothingP 


AL* IN THE DARK. 


65 


ni write all round the country, and tell 
the people Ihn eight-and-twenty or thirty, for 
any tiling I know, if you have no objection. I 
don’t see any harm it can do, telling truth 
perhaps mayn’t do one much good; but if 
I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned this at 
all events, that there’s absolutely no good in 
the other course.” 

I don’t know what you mean by courses. 
No one I hope has been committing any fraud 
in this house. If you please to tell people you 
are thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact, 
you must on^jr take the consequences. Your 
miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of 
you, and when I’m in my grave you’ll re- 
pent it.” 

So saying she left the room, and coming 
down in a few minutes in a black velvet gar- 
ment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff 
of the same judicial fur, she repaired to the 
schoolroom, where, much to William’s relief, 
she graciously begged a holiday for Howard, 
and then asked William with, at the end of 
her invitation, a great smile which plainly 
said, “ I know you can hardly believe your 
ears, but it’s true notwithstanding,” to lend 
an old woman his arm in a walk up and down 
the terrace. 

William was of course at her service, though 
the honour was one which at that moment was 
almost oppressive. 


o 


CHAPTER XLI. 

HOW THEY TALKED. 

After a few turns, and some little talk, Xdrs. 
Kincton Knox said : 

‘‘ I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, like most of us, 
young as you are, you have your troubles. You 
will excuse an old woman, old enough to be 
your mother, and who likes you, who really 
feels a very deep interest in you, for saying so. 
I wish — I wish, in fact, there was a little more 
confidence, but all in good time. I said you 
'^ere — you were — it’s perhaps impertinent of 
me to say I observed it, but my motive is not 
curiosity, nor, you will believe, unkind. I did 
see you were distressed this morning by the 
letter that reached you. I tmst there was no 
illness, nor 

No, nothing — that is which I had not — 
which was not,” he replied. “Nothing very 
unexpected.” 

“ For if there was any necessity, any loisli to 
leave Kincton for a little, I should offer my 
poor services as a substitute with your pupil, 
if you would trust him to me.” 

Although her graciousness was oppressive, 
and her playfulness awful, there were welcome 
signs of sympathy in this speech, and William 
Maubray greeted them with something like 
confidence, and, said he : — 

“It’s awfully kind of you, Iffrs. Kincton 
5 


Knox, to think about me. I — I don’t know 
exactly what to say, except that I am very 
grateful, and — and it’s quite true I’ve had a 
great deal of vexation and suffering — a kind of 
quarrel — a very bad quarrel, indeed, at home, 
as I call it, and — and some other things.” 

“ Other things I — no doubt. There is one 
trouble to which the young are exposed, and 
from which old people are quite exempt. The 
course of true love, you know, as our great 
moralist says, never did run smooth.” 

Pier prominent eyes were fixed with an awful 
archness upon Maubray, and, conscious as he 
was, he blushed and paled under her gaze, and 
was dumb. 

“ My maxim in all such cases is, never despair. 
When a young man is endowed, like you, with 
good looks, and a — a refinement. You see I 
am talking to you almost as I would to a son, 
that darling boy of mine is such a link, and 
one grows so soon to know a guest ^ and those 
delightful evenings, and I think — I Mr. 

Herbert, I can see a little with my old eyes, 
and I’ve divined your secret.” 

“ I may — that is, I think it may have been 
— a fancy j just. I don’t know,” said William, 
very much put out. 

“But I know. You may be perfectly certain 
you are in love, if you ain’t quite certain that 
you are not. Trust an old woman who has seen 
something of life — that is, of human nature,” 
insisted Mrs. Kincton Knox. 

“ I — I don’t know, I dffl not know it myself 
until, I think, wiihin the last few days. I dare 
say I’m a great fool. I’m sure I am, in fact, 
and I ought not to have allowed — but I really 
did not know.” 

He suspected that Trevor had told all ho 
knew of his story, and that the women, with 
the sagacity of their sex, had divined the rest. 

“ You see, Mr. Herbert, I have not guessed 
amiss. When I see a young person very much 
dejected and distrait^ I at once suspect a 
romance ; and now let me say a word of a — 
derived from observation. As I .said 
before — I’ve known such things happen — 
never despair. There is a spark of romance in 
our sex as well as in yours. I think I may be 
of use to you. I dare say things are not quite 
so desperate as they appear. But do trust me 
— do be frank.” 

“ I will. I’ll tell you everything. I — I don’t 
know where to begin. But I’m so much obliged. 
I’ve no one to speak to, and 

At this moment the “ darling boy ” Howard 
bounced from behind a thick shrub, with 
shriek which was echoed by his fond mother, 
who, if anything so dignified could jump, did 
jump, and even William’s manly heart made 
an uncomfortable bounce in his breast. At 
the same time Master Howard Seymour turned 
his ankle, and tumbled with a second horrid 
roar on the walk, from which his mother and 
his instructor lifted him, not much hurt, but 
bellowing in a fury, and requiring to be con- 
ducted for comfort to the house. 

“ I shall call upon you again, Mr. Herbert, 
when my .poor darling is better, and we can — 
there, there I my rosebud,” began Mrs. Kinc- 


66 


ALL IN THE HAEK. 


ton Knox, distracted between her curiosity 
and her compassion. 

“Shall I take him on my back? Get up. 
May he ? And so, with the lady’s Approval, 
he took the urchin, who was hopping round 
them in circles with hideous uproar, in his 
arms, and bore him away beside his anxious 
paient towards the house, where, having 
ministered to the sufferer, Mrs. Kincton Knox 
looked into the drawing-room, and found Miss 
Clara seated by the fire, with her slender feet 
as usual, on a boss, reading her novel. 

Mrs. Kincton Knox, stooping over her, 
kissed her, and Miss Clara, knowing that the 
unusual caress indicated something extraordi- 
nary, looked up with a dreary curiosity into 
her mother’s face. "When they were Ute-d-tete^ 
these ladies did not trouble one another much 
with smiles or caresses. Still her mother was 
smiling with a mysterious triumph, and nodd- 
ed encouragingly upon her. • 

“Well?” asked Miss Clara. 

“ I think you’ll find that I was right, and 
that somebody will ask you a question before 
long,” answered her mother, with an oracular 
smile. 

Miss Clara certainly did look a little inter- 
ested at this intimation, and sat up with com- 
parative energy, looking rather earnestly into 
her mdther’s prominent, hard brown eyes. 

“ He’s been talking very, I may say, frankly 
to me, and although we were interrupted by a 
— an accident, yet 'there was no mistaking 
him. At least that’s my opinion.” 

And Mrs. Kincton Knox sat down, and with 
her imposing coiffurc'.nodding over her daugh- 
ter’s ear, recounted, with perhaps some little 
colouring, her interesting conversation with 
William Maubray. While this conference was 
proceeding, the door opened, and Mr. Kincton 
Knox, his gloves, white hat, and stick in his 
hand, walked in. 

It was one of Mrs. Kincton Knox’s unpub- 
lished theories that her husband’s presence jn 
the drawing-room was a trespass, as that of a 
cow among the flower-beds under the windows. 

As that portly figure in the gray woollen 
suit and white waistcoat entered mildly, the 
matron sat erect, and eyed him with a gaze 
of astonishment, which, however, “was quite 
lost upon him, as he had not his spectacles on. 

“ I hope, Mr. Kincton Knox, your shoes are 
not covered with mud ? — unless you are pre- 
pared to buy another carpet,” she paid, glanc- 
ing at the clumsy articles in question. 

“Oh, dearl no — I haven’t been out — just 
going, but I want you and Clara to look over 
there,” and he pointed with his stick, at which 
Mrs. Kincton Knox winced with the ejacula- 
tion, “ the China!” 

“ You see those three trees,” he continued, 
approaching the window with his stick ex- 
tended. 

“ Yes, you weec?n’t go on, perfectly she 
answered. 

“ Well, the one- to the right is, in fact, I 
think it’s an ugly tree ; I’ve been for long 
time considering it. You see it there, Clara, 
on the rising ground, near the paling ?” 


She did. 

“Well, I’m thinking of taldng him down; 
what do you say ?” 

“ Do lower your stick, Mr. Kincton Knox, 
y>ray, we can see perfectly without breaking 
an5dhing,” expostulated his wife. 

“Well, what do you say?” he repeated, 
pointing with his hand instead. 

“ Do you want my opinion as to what trees 
should come down?” said Mrs. Knox, with 
admirable perseverance, “ I shall be happy to 
give it with respect to all — as to that particu- 
lar tree it is so far away, I really don’t think 
the question worth debating.” ^ 

“ Take it down, papa,” said Miss Clara, who 
rather liked her father, and encouraged him 
when too much put down. “ I really think 
you’re always right about trees. I think 
you’ve such wonderful taste, I do indeed, and 
judgment about all those things.” 

The old man gave her a hearty kiss on the 
cheek,* and smiling ruddily, said — 

“Well, I think I ought; I’ve read some- 
thing, and thought something on the subject, 
and as you don’t dissent, my dear, and Clara 
says it’s to come down — down it comes. She’s 
looking very pretty ; egad she is^ — ^wonderfully 
pretty she is to-day.” 

“ Folly !’‘ exclaimed Miss Clara, pleased 
notwithstanding. 

“ Other people think her good-looking too, 
I can tell you,” exclaimed her mother, whose 
thoughts were all in that channel, and who 
could not forbear saying something on the 
subject; .“I think, even you, Mr. Kincton 
Knox, will see that I have done my duty by 
our child, and have been the means under 
Providence of promoting her happiness.” 

“And what is it?” said Mr. Kincton Knox, 
looking solemnly on his daughter. 

“ I don’t know that there is anything at 
all,” replied she quietly. 

Mrs. Kincton Knox beckoned him imperi- 
ously, and they drew near the window, while 
the young lady resumed her novel. 

“ He’s in love with hex/’ she murmured. 

“ W^'ho, my dear ?” 

“Mr. Maubray.” 

“Oh I is he ? — lohat, Mr. Maubray,” inquired 
the old gentleman. 

“ Wynston Maubray — probably Sir Wynston 
Maubray, at this moment, his father, you 
know, is dying ; if not dead.” 

“ Sir Kichard, you mean ?” 

“ Of course, I mean Sir Eichard. 

“ Yes, he is ; he wasn’t a bad fellow, poor 
Maubray. But it’s a long time — ^thirty — thirty- 
eight years — yes — since we were at Oxford.” 

“ And his son’s in the house.” 

“Here?” 

“ Yes, this house, Aere.” 

“ Very happy to see him, I’m sure, very 
happy — we’ll do all in our power,” said Mr. 
Kincton Knox, very much at sea as to the 
cause of his arrival. 

“ You know Mr. Herbert?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, that’s he — Mr. Herbert is Mr. Wyn- 
ston Maubray. If you were to stare till 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


Q1 


Doomsday it won’t change the fact ; here he 
is, and has been — and has confessed to me that 
he likes Clara. He’s very modest, almost 
shy, and without any kind of management on 
my part; had I stooped to that as other 
mothers do, she’d have been married, no doubt, 
long ago — simply placing them under the 
same roof, perceiving that he was a gentle- 
man ; ascertaining who he was, 1 left the rest 
to — ^to — you see, and the consequence is — as 
I’ve told you, and — ^and humanly speaking — 
she’ll be Lady Maubray.” 

“ Oh 1” said Mr. Kincton Knox. 

Perhaps you don’t like it V 
Oh ! like it ? — very well ; but — ^but she’s 
very young — there’s no great hurry; I — I 
would not hurry her.’ 

^^Poohl” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, 
turning abruptly away from her husband, one 
of whose teazing hallucinations was that-Clara 
had Joardly emerged from the nursery. 


-o- 


CHAPTER XLir. 

CONFIDENCES. 

Mils. Kincton Knox, still in walking cos- 
tume, entered the school-room, intending to 
invite the pseudo-tutor to continue his walk 
with her ; and with one of her awful smiles 
she began : 

“ I’ve come to claim your promise, Mr. 
Maubray.” The name had escaped her. It 
reverberated in her ear like a cannon-shot. 
Hardly less astounded stood our friend 
William before her. For a full minute she 
could not think of a presentable fib, and 
stared at him a good deal flushed ; and drop- 
ped her huge, goggle eyes upon a “ copy-book ” 
of Master Howard’s, which she raised and 
inspected with a sudden interest, and having 
read — 

“Necessity is the mo” 

“ Necessity is the moth” 

“ Necessity is the moth’r” 

“ Necessity is the mo” 

upon its successive lines, she replaced it 
firmly, raised her head and said — 

“ I have addressed you by the name of 
Maubray, which I’ve learned, just five minutes 
since, is your real name ; but, should you pre- 
fer my employing that of Herbert — ^my using 
the other, indeed, was simply an accident ; and, 
perhaps, it is better — I shall certainly do so. 
Your little confidence has interested me unaf- 
fectedly — very much, indeed — deeply inter- 
ested me ; the more particularly as Mr. Kincton 
Knox was once acquainted with a family of 
your name. Sir Richard Maubray, possibly a 
relation.” 

William, who was still a little confused, 
assented, and the lady, with growing confi- 
dence, proceeded : 

“ You mentioned some unhappy family dis- 
cord ; and it struck me — Mr. Kincton Knox, 


you know, and I — in fact, we have a good 
many friends, that possibly some — a — inter- 
vention — 

“ Oh ! thanxs ; very kind of you ; but I 
don’t know any one likely to have much 
influence— except, perhaps, Mr. Wagget ; and 
I was thinking of writing to liim, although I 
hardly know him sufficiently.” 

“ And may I ask who Mr. Wagget is ?” 
inquired the lady, who had intentions of tak- 
ing the carriage of the afiair. 

“ The — a clergyman — a, very good man, I 
believe.” 

Oh ! in at^endange at the sick bed?’’ in- 
quired the matron, with proper awe. 

“ No — no ; not that I know of; but a very 
old friend of my aunt’s.” 

“ I see — I understand — and he and your 
aunt would unite their influence to reconcile 
you.” 

“ Oh, my quarrel, as we’ve been calling it, 
is with my aunt.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! — I see, and your father has 
taken it up ?” suggested Mrs. Kincton Knox, 
promptly. 

“ My father’s dead,” said William, with the 
gravity becoming such an announcement. 

“ Oh ! dear me ! — I’m shocked to think I 
should — I beg your pardon. I ought to have 
anticipated. You have, I assure you, my 
deep sympathy — all our sympathies. I do 
recollect now having heard something of his 
illness ; but, dear ! oh, dear I What a world 
it is .” 

William could only bow with his former 
seriousness. It was more than twenty years 
since his excellent father had deceased ; and 
though he could not remember, Mrs. Kincton 
Knox very well might, an event of that date. 
Still the fervour of her surprise and her 
sympathy were, considering all things, a little 
uncalled for. 

“ The rupture, then, is with your aunt — 
dear me ! you must have wonderful self-com- 
mand, admirable — ^admirable, in so young a 
person.” A brief pause followed this oracular 
speech. 

“ And your aunt is married ?” inquired 
Mrs. Kincton Knox, 

“ No, unmarried— in fact, an old maid,” he 
replied. 

“ Oh I yes, quite so. Then she’s Miss 
Maubray?” said the lady. 

“ No, Miss Perfect said he. 

“ Miss Perfect, maternal aunt, it must be 
and Mrs. Kincton Knox paused, a little per- 
plexed, for she did not recollect that name in 
that interesting -page in the Peerage, which 
she had looked ipto more than once. She 
concluded, however, it must be so, and said, 
slowly, “ I see — I see.” 

“ And what — you’ll do me the justice to 
believe, it ain’t curiosity but a higher motive 
that actuates me — ^what is the ground of this 
unhappy dispute ?” 

“ She has set her heart on my going into 
the Church,” said William sadly, “ and I’m 
not fit for it.” 

“ Certainly exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, 


68 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


“ nothing, begging the old lady^s pardon, 
could he more absurd — ^you’re not fit of course, 
nor is it fit for you — there is ho fitness whatever. 
There’s the Very Rev. the Earl of Epsom, and 
the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and many 
others I could name. Can anything be more 
ridiculous ? They both have their estates, 
and — and position to look after; and their 
ordination vow pledges them to give their 
entire thoughts to their holy calling. I and 
Mr. Kincton Knox have had many arguments 
upon the subject ; as you see. I’m quite with 
you. Mr. — Mr. Herbert^ you must allow me 
still to call you by that i^ame — that deav old 
name. I was going to say” — — 

William could only acquiesce — a little 
puzzled at her general exuberance ; she 
seemed, in fact, quite tipsy with good nature. 
How little one can judge of character at first 
sight I 

“ And, of course, it is not for me to say — 
but your reserve about your name — I suppose 
that is at an end. Since the — ^the melancholy 
termination of your hopes and fears — I mean 
there can hardly be — now that you apprize 
me of your domestic loss” 

It was entirely in deference to my aunt^s 
prejudices, that I — ^Doctor Sprague, in fact,” 
began William. 

I know, an old friend of poor Sir Richard’s ; 
but whatever else you do, I suppose we must 
make up our minds to lose you for a week or 
so ; your absence would be of course remarked 
upon, in fact, those feelings never survive the 
grave, and there are sacrifices to decorum. 
Your friends, and you know there are those 
here who feel an interest j no one could advise 
your staying away.” 

“ My aunt is not ill ?” said William with a 
sudden and horrible misgiving, for the lady’s 
manner was unmistakably funeral. 

111 ? — I haven’t heard. I have not the 
honour of knowing Miss Purity,” said Mrs. 
Kincton Knox. 

Perfect interrupted William — “thank 
God ! I mean that she’s not ill.” 

“ I was thinking not of your aunt, but of 
your poor father ; there are things to be looked 
after ; you are of age.” 

“Yes, three-and-twenty,” said William, 
with a coolness that under so sudden a bereave- 
ment, was admirable. 

“ Not quite that, ^M;o-and-twenty last May,” 
said the Student of the Peerage. 

William knew he was right, but the point, 
an odd one for Mrs. Kincton Knox to raise — 
was not worth disputing. 

“ And, considering the circumstances under 
which, although you will not admit the — the 
estrangement, poor Sir Richard Maubray has 
been taken ” 

“Sir Richard! Is Sir Richard dead?” ex- 
claimed William. 

“Dead! of course he is dead. Why you 
told me so yourself, this moment.” 

“ I— I couldnH ; I— I didn’t know— I— if I 
said anything like that, it was the merest 
slip.” 

“He’s either dead or alive, sir, I suppose; 


and, whether intentionally or by slip^ it is for 
you to determine ; but I’m positive you did 
tell me that he’s dead] and if he be so, pray, 
as between friends, let there be an end of con- 
cealments, which can have no object or effect 
but a few hours’ delay in making known a 
fact which must immediately appear in all the 
newspapers,” expostulated Mrs. Kincton Knox 
as nearly offelided as it was possible to be with 
so very eligible a young man, so opportunely 
placed, and in so docile a mood. 

“ He’s dying ^ at all events,” she added. 

“ That i know,” said William, with that 
coolness which had before struck Mrs. Kinc- 
ton Knox, during this interview, as a new 
filial phenomenon. 

“ And although we shall miss you, some of 
us very much, yet, of couse, knowing all^ we 
have no claim — no right— only you must 
pledge me your honour — you really must.” 
She was holding his hand and pressed- it im- 
pressively between both hers, “ that you 
won’t forget your Kincton friends — that so 
soon as you can, you will return, and give us 
at least those weeks on which we reckon.” 

“ It is very kind — it’s very good of you. It 
is very odd, but I had such a wish to go, just 
for a day or two — only to see Dr. Sprague — 
and — and to consult him about writing to 
Gilroyd before finally determining on a course 
of life. I was thinking of — in fact going 
away and leaving England altogether.” 

Mrs. Kincton Knox stared, and at last asked : 

“ Who is Gilroyd ?” 

“ My aunt’s house, a small i^lace, Gilroyd 
Hall.” 

“ I was merely thinking of your attending 
poor Sir Richard’s obsequies.” 

“The funeral? I — I should not like to 
attend it uninvited,” answered William. . “ I 
don’t know that I should be a welcome guest ; 
in • fact, I know I should not — young Mau- 
bray ” 

“ Your brother ?” inquired the lady, who 
did not remember any such incumbrance ’in 
the record she had consulted. 

“No, my cousin.” 

“ Cousin ? And what right could a cousin 
pretend to exclude youirom. your father’s fune- 
ral ?” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, unfeign- 
edly amazed. 

“ I’m speaking of Sir Richard Maubray, my 
uncle. My father has been a long time dead — 
when I was a mere child.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course — dead a long time,” re- 
peated Mrs. Kincton Knox, slowly, as the hor- 
rible bewilderment in which she had been 
lost began to clear away. “Oh, yes, your 
uncle^ Sir Richard Maubray; of course — of 
course that would alter — I — / was speaking 
of your Tather — I did not know you had lost 
him so long ago — it, of course, it’s quite an- 
other thing, and — a — and — you wish to go to 
Mrs. Purity ?” 

“No — a — Perfect — not to go there — not to 
Gilroyd, only to Cambridge, to see Doctor 
Sprague.” 

“Very well — a — very well — I don’t see, I 
shall mention it to Mr. Kincton Knox ; have 


ALL IK THE DAEK. 


69 


you anything more to say to me. Mr. — Mr. 
— pray what am I to call you? Herbert, I 
suppose ?” 

“ Nothing, but to thank you — you’ve been 
so good, so very kind to me.” 

■ “ I — I • make it a rule to be kind to — a — to 
eoery body. I endeavour to be so — I believe I 
havej^ said the majestic lady with a dignity 
indescribably dry. I shall mention your 
v/ish to Mr. Kincton Knox. Good evening, 
Mr. — Mr. Herbert.” 

It seemed to our friend William, that the 
lady was very much offended wdth him ; but 
what he had done to provoke her resentment 
he could not divine. He reproached himself 
after the door had closed, for not having asked 
her ; but perhaps an opportunity would offer, 
or he might make one, he could not bear the 
idea of having wounded a heart which had 
shown such friendly leanings towards him. 


CHAPTER XLIII 

iffi. KIXCTON KNOX EECEIVES A StJMMONS. 

Mr. Kington Knox, with a couple of dogs at 
his heels, was tranquilly consulting his chief 
commissioner of woods and forests, when he 
was summoned from his sylvan discourses by 
a loud tapping on his study window, within 
Avhose frame he he saw, like a full-length por- 
trait of Mrs. Siddons, on a sign-board, if such 
a thing exists, the commanding figure of his 
wife, who was beckoning him imperiously. 

The window at which she stood was in fact 
a glass door opening upon two steps, to which 
the peaceable old gentleman of sixty-two won- 
deringly drew near. 

“ Come in,” she exclaimed, beckoning again 
grimly, and superadding a fierce nod. 

So up went the sash, and the little hatch 
which simulated a window-sill was pulled open 
by the old gentleman, who was vexed some- 
Vvhat at the interruption. 

She read this in his honest countenance, and 
said, as he entered — 

“ I don’t mean to detain you, Mr. Kincton 
Knox, I shan’t keep you more than^ five 
minutes away from your timber ; but I think, 
for once, you may give that time to your family. 
It’s becoming a little too much for me perfectly 
unaided as I’ve always been.” 

“ Well, I’m sorry you’re annoyed. Some- 
thing will happen, I suppose. What do you 
v/ish me to do?” said that accommodating 
gentleman in the grey tweed and copious white 
waistcoat. 

I told you, Mr. Kincton Knox, if you re- 
member, when your friend, Dr. Sprague, of 
whose character, recollect, 1 know nothing, 
except from your representations — I told you 
distinctly my impression when that gentleman 
was persuading you to accept the — the — a 
person who’s here in the capacity of tutor, 
under a feigned name. I then stated my con- 


viction that there was danger in disguise. I 
declared myself unable to assign any creditable 
reason for such a step. Wiser people, however, 
thought differently — my scruples were over- 
ruled by you and your friend Doctor — Doctor 
— whads his name ?” 

“ Sprague — eh ?” said her husband. 

“ Yes — Sprague. It is not the first time that • 
my warning voice has been disregarded. It 
does not in this case signify much — fortunately 
very little ; but it is not pleasant to have one’s 
house made a scene of duplicity to please Dr. 
Sprague, or to convenience some low young 
puppy.” 

“ I thought jou said he was the son of my 
friend Maubray — Sir Richard, you know ?” 

“ It signifies very little whose son he is ; but 
he’s not — I siniply conjectured he might, and 
certainly everything was artfully, or not I can’t 
say, laid in train to induce that belief on my 
part ; but he’s not — I thought it best to clear 
it up. He says he’s some relation — ^goodness 
knows ; but in point of everything else he’s a 
mere pretender — the — the merest adventurer, 
and the sooner we part with him the better.” 

And what do you wish me to do ?” said Mr. 
Kincton Knox, with some little vehemence. 

“ I’ve given you my views,” replied the lady. 

Yes, but you like to do everything your- 
self, and you always say I’m wrong whatever I 
say or dof said the old gentleman, sonorously, 
flushing a little, and prodding the point of his 
stick on the floor. 

“ See the young man and dismiss him,” said 
his wife peremptorily. 

Well, that’s easily done, of course. But 
what has he done % I — I — there ought to be a 
rea-son.” 

“ The reason is that I’m tired of disguises. 
We can’t go on in that absurd manner. It 
never was known at Kincton, and I — I ” 

Suddenly Mrs. Kincton Knox paused in her 
sentence, and with a great rustling hurried to 
the study window, where she began to knock 
with a vehemence which alarmed her husband 
for the safety of his panes. 

The object of the summons was Miss Clara 
in that exquisitely becoming black velvet 
cloak and little bonnet which was so nearly ir- 
resistible, all grace and radiance, and smiling — 
upon whom ? Why, upon that odious tutor to 
whom she was pointing out some of those 
flowers which she claimed to have planted and 
tended with her own fingers. 

Her mother beckoned fiercely. 

“ Assist me, if you please, Mr. Kincton 
Knox ; open this horrid window, no one else 
can.” 

So it was opened, and she called rather 
huskily to Clara to come in. 

“ I want to say a word to you, please.” 

And without condescending to perceive Wil- 
liam Maubrajq who had raised his hat, she said 
with an appearance of excitement not of a 
pleasant kind, and in presence of which some- 
how the young lady’s heart sunk with a sud- 
den misgiving — 

We’ll go up, my dear, to my room. I’ve a 
word to say, — and— and I think Mr. Kincton 


10 


ALL IN THE DABK. 


Knox, as you asked mo what you shall do, you 
may as well, in this instance, as usual, do no- 
thing. Ill write. Ill do it myself. Come, 
Clara.” 

So suspending questions until the apart- 
ment up stairs -^as reached, the young lady, 
in silence and with a very grave face, accom- 
panied her mother. 

“ Charming day — sweet day — ^we shall soon 
have the storms, though — they must come ; 
we had them ten days earlier last year. Will 
you come with me to the Farm-road planta- 
tion, and give me your ideas about what I’m 
going’ to do?” 

And the old gentleman came down the two 
steps from the glass door upon the closely- 
shorn grass, looking a little red, but rmiling 
kindly, for he saw no reason for what his wife 
intended, and thought the young man was 
about to be treated unfairly, and felt a liking 
for him. 

No ; she can’t come down again ; I know 
her mother wants her, so you may as well 
come with me.” - 

So off they set together, and I dare say 
William liked that ramble better than he 
would have done the other. The old man 
was sociable, genial, and modest, and had 
taken rather late in life, tempted thereto, no 
doubt, by solitude, to his books, some of 
which, such as “ Captain Lemuel Gulliver’s 
Travels,” were enigmatical, and William was 
able to throw some lights which were .new to 
the elderly student, who conceived a large 
and honest admiration for his young friend, 
and would have liked to see a great deal more 
of him than he was quite sure Mrs. Kincton 
Knox would allow. 

In the course of their walk, William Mau- 
bray observed that' he seemed even more than 
usually kindly, and once or twice talked a 
little mysteriously of women’s caprices, and 
told him not to mind them ; and told him also 
when he was at Oxford he had got once or 
twice a little dipped — young fellows always 
do — and he wanted to know — he was not, of 
course, to say a word about it — if fifty pounds 
would be of any use to him — ^he’d be so 
happy, and he could pay him any time, in 
ten years or twenty for that matter, for the 
old gentleman dimly intended to live on in- 
definitely. 

But William did not need this kindlv help, 
and when his pleasant ramble with the old 
man and his dogs was over, and he returned 
to the “ school-room,” William found a note 
awaiting him on the table, in the large-hand 
of Mrs. Kincton Emox. 


■o 


CHAPTER XLiy. 

BACK TO CAMBRIDGB. 

The letter upon the table was thus : — 

“ October, 1860. 

“ Mrs. Kincton Knox understanding from 
Mr. Herbert that he wishes to visit Cambridge 
upon business, begs to say that she will 
oppose no difdculty to his departing on to- 
morrow morning with that view ; she begs 
also to mention that Mr. Kincton Knox will 
write by an early post to the Rev. Dr. Sprague 
upon the subject of Mr. Herbert’s engage- 
ment. A carriage will be at the door at eight 
o’clock, A.M., to convey Mr. Herbert to the 
railway station.” 

What have I done. I’ve certainly offended 
her — she who wrote all those friendly little 
notes ; I can’t think of anything, unless that 
boy Howard has been telling lies. She’ll give 
me an opportunity of explaining, I suppose, 
and it will all be right ; it can’t be much.” 

Glad he was to get away even for two or 
three days to his old haunts, and to something 
like his old life. He made his preparations 
early for his next morning’s journey, and late 
in the evening with his ingenious pupil, won- 
dering whether a change of mood might not 
bring him a relenting note on the usual pink 
paper, inviting him to visit them in the 
drawing-room, and debating whether it might 
not be a wholesome lesson to the capricious 
old lady to excuse himself, and so impose on 
her the onus of explanation. 

^‘I say, old chap, listen.- What do you 
think ?” said Master Howard, who had been 
whistling, and on a sudden, being prompted 
to speak, poked the point of his pen uncom- 
fortably into the back of William’s hand. 

“ Stop that, young un. I told you before 
you’re not to do that. What have you got to 
say ? Come.” 

I say, I heard mamma say to Clara this 
afternoon, that you ain’t to to be trusted ; and 
I told Clara I’d tell you, because she teazed 
me ; and mamma said you deceived papa. I 
heard every word.” 

“ She could not have said that, because I 
never did anything of the kind,” said William, 
flushing a little. 

“ Yes, but she did. I heard her, I’d swear ; 
and Clara said, he’s a low person. I told her 
I’d tell you. She did, upon my word — a low 
person and I said I’d tell you ; and I’ll tell 
you ever so much more.” 

“Not now, please, nor ever. I don’t want 
to hear that sort of thing, even if it was said. 
I’d rather not, I think, unless it was said to 
myself.’l, ♦ 

“And I heard Clara say, let him go about'' 
his business. I d;d, upon my honour.” 

“ I say, young un, this is one of your fibs to 
vex Miss Knox.’” 

Master Howard began to vociferate. 

“Quiet, sir! If your mamma had any 
complaint to make, she’d make it to me, I 
suppose ; and if you say a word more on the 
subject. I’ll go' in and mention the matter 


ALL IK TH^ DARK. 


n 


to your mamma/’ said William, growing 
angry. 

“ Catch me telling you anything ever again, 
as long as I live, that’s all,” said Master 
Howard, and broke into matterings ; and then 
whistled a tune as loud as he could, with his 
hands in his pockets, and his heels on the 
table. But he did not succeed in disturbing 
William. Thoughts that are thoroughly un- 
pleasant hold fast like bull-dogs. It is only 
the pleasant ones that take wing at noise, like 
a flight of birds. 

Away in due time went Master Howard — 
no sign appeared fiom the drawing-room—- 
and William Maubray, who in his elevation 
and his fall had experienced for the second 
time something of the uncertainty of human 
affairs, went to his bed mortified and dismal, 
and feeling that, go where he would, repulse 
and insult awaited him. 

His early breakfast despatched — William 
mounted the dog cart, which, in her official 
letter, Mrs. Kincton Knox had dignified with 
the title of carriage, and drove at a rapid pace 
away from Kincton, with a sense of relief and 
hope as the distance increased, and a rising 
confidence that somehow Kb was to see that 
abode of formality and caprice no more. 

Doctor Sprague was now at Cambridge, and 
greeted him very kindly. He had not much 
news to tell. It was true Sir Richard Maubray 
was actually dead at Gilgh/ii, whence the 
body was to be removed that day to Wyndel- 
ston, where in about a week would be the 
funeral. 

“ No, William would not go— he was not 
recognised, it would not do — Sir Wynston, as 
he now was, would take care to let him know 
he was not wanted.” 

So said William in reply to the Doctor’s 
question, and having related his experience of 
Kincton, Doctor Sprague told him frankly, 
that although Kincton Knox was a very good 
fellow, and very kind, though a little weak, 
you know, that he had always heard his wife 
was a particularly odious woman. 

Well, and what of Miss Perfect; any con- 
ciliatory symptoms in that quarter?” asked 
Doctor Sprague. 

Oh, none ; she is very inflexible, sir ; her 
dislikes never change.” 

While they were talking some letters ar- 
rived, one of which was actually from Kincton, 
and in the hand of its mistress. 

“ Hey ? Haw I ha — ha I I protest, Maubray, 
the lady has cut you — read^'^ and he threw the 
letter across the table to William. 


0 

CHAPTER XLV. 

VIOLET DA.UKWELL AT GILROYD AGAIN. 

‘^Mrs. Kincton Knox” it said, presents her 
compliments to the Rev. W. H. Sprague, and 
as Mr. Kincton Knox is suffering from gout in 
his hand, which though slight, prevents his 


writing, she is deputed to apprise him that 
the gentleman calling himself Mr. Herbert, 
who has been acting as tutor at Kincton, need 
not return to complete his engagement. Mr. 
Kincton Knox desires to remit to him, through 
your hands, the enclosed cheque, payable to 
you, and for the full amount of the term he 
was to have completed. Should the young 
man feel that under the circumstances, he can 
have no right to retain the entire amount, ho 
will be so good as to return that portion of 
the sum to which he feels himself unentitled. 
We wish to mention that we part with him 
not in consequence of any specific fault, so 
much as from a feeling, upon consideration, 
that we could no longer tolerate the practice 
of a concealment at Kincton, the character 
and nature of which — although we impute 
nothing — might not* consist with our own 
ideas upon the subject.” 

“ She begins in the third person and ends 
in the first,” said Doctor Sprague, “ otherwise 
it is a very fine performance. What am I to 
do about the cheque ?” 

I will not touch a farthing,” said William. 

Tut, tut ; I think you’ve a right to it all, 
but if you object, we’ll send them back all 
that represents the unexpired part of your en- 
gagement, but I’ll have no Quixotism. I’m 
half sorry, Maubray, we ever thought of tui- 
tions ; we must think of some other way. 
You’re quite right in resolving not to vex 
Miss Perfect more than you can help. I’m 
clear upon that; but I’ve been thinking of 
quite another thing — I have not time now to 
tell you all.”. He glanced at his watch. ‘‘ But 
you can speak French, and you would have to 
reside in Paris. I think it would answer you 
very nicely, and I think you ought to let Miss 
Perfect know something of your plans, con- 
sidering all she has done. I’ll see you here 
again in an hour.” 

And William took his leave. 

That evening Miss Violet Darkwell arrived 
at Gilroyd. She did not think old ‘^grannie ” 
looking well — was it a sadness or a feebleness 
— there was something unusual in her look 
that troubled her. She thought her Violet 
looking quite beautiful — more so than ever — 
so perhaps she was. And she asked her all 
sorts of questions about all sorts of things, 
and how the Mainwarings had arranged tl>^ 
rooms, for Aunt Dinah had known the house 
long ago, and whether the paint had ever 
been taken off that covered the old oak wain- 
scot in the parlour, and ever so many other 
particulars besides*. 

And at last she said— 

Great news Mr. Trevor tells me of Wil- 
liam.” -Bhe had already resolved against 
opening the Trevor budget to its more in- 
teresting recesses. “ William Maubray — ^he’s 
going to marry — to make a great match in 
some respects — money, beauty — 

Ohl” said Violet with a smile. 

“ Yes ; a Miss Kincton Knox. He has been 
residing in the house; an only daughter. 
Kincton is the place.” 

Something of this Violet had heard before 


12 


ALL IN THE BAR. 


she left Gilroyd, hut not all j and Aunt Dinah 
went on — 

‘‘They are connected somehow with Mr. 
Trevor, whom I’ve grown to like extremely, 
and he saw William there *, and from what he 
told me I look upon it as settled, and so in 
fact does he.” 

“ It’s very cold, isn’t it, to-night ?” said 
Miss Violet. “ That’s all very nice — very well 
for William Maubray.” 

“Very well; better, perhaps, than he de- 
serves. Had I been, however, as we used to 
bo, I should have endeavoured to postpone it, 
to induce the parties to defer it for a little — in 
fact for five years. I may say, indeed, I should 
have made a point of it ; because I — I happen 
to know that his marrying within that time 
will be attended with the worst consequences.” 

There was a silence. 

“ Ver^ cold,” repeated Miss Violet, drawing 
a little nearer to the fire. 

“ It seems odd, as a mere matter of respect 
— ^that’s all, of course, he should not have 
written me a single line upon the subject,” 
said Miss Perfect, grimly. 

“ Well, perhaps, not very odd,” answered 
Miss Darkwell carelessly, yet somehow, ever 
so little, sadly. “ I’m beginning to think it a 
worse world than I used to think it, and — and 
so hard to know any one in it, except dear old 
grannie.” 

And up got the girl, and threw her pretty 
arms round old Aunt Dinah’s neck, and kissed 
her. 

“ Little Vi, little Vi !” said Aunt Dinah, with 
a tender tremour in her voice, and she laughed 
a little. 

“ I think you are tired, darling. Your long 
drive,” she added. 

“ I believe I aw, grannie. Shall I run away 
to my bed?” 

“ God bless you, darling I” said grannie, and 
rang the bell for old Winnie Dobbs, who ap- 
peared ; and away, with a second good night, 
they went. 

“ Well, old Winnie Dobbs, great doings, I 
hear. Grannie says Mr. William’s to be 
married — a great lady. Miss Kincton Knox, 
she says — and very pretty — quite a beauty, 
quite a belle.” 

She was looking with a faint little smile 
down upon the trinkets she was laying upon 
the dressing table, and she spoke in the tones 
in which people recall a very far off remem- 
brance. 

“ Well, she did tell me so. Miss Vi ; and 
very glad I was, poor fellow ; but very young. 
I that knows him when he was only the 
length o’ my arm — to think of him now. 
But very sensible — always was ; a good head 
— wiser than many an older body.” 

“ You’ve never seen the lady ?” said Vi, 

“ No ; but Mr. Trevor’s groom was stopping 
there last summer for a week with Mr. Trevor, 
you know, and he did not much like the 
family — that’s the old lady — no one has a 
good word of her ; and the young one. Miss 
Clara — do you like the name Clara, miss ?” 

“ Yes ; a pretty name I think.” 


“Well, they don’t say much about her; 
only she’s very distant like ?” 

“ And she's the lady?” asked Violet. 

“Ah, that she is, miss — the only daughter,” 

“ She’s tall?” 

“Well, yes ; he says she is.” 

“ Taller than I, I dare say ?” 

“ Well, he did not say that; you’re a good 
height you know yourself, miss — a nice figure, 
yes, indeed.” 

“ And what colour is her hair ?” asked Vi. 

“ Light — light hair,” he said. 

“ Yes ; he always liked light hair, I think,” 
she said, still with the same faint smile and in 
the same soft and saddened tones. Vi was 
arranging her own rich dark brown tresses at 
the glass. 

“And blue eyes — large — something the 
colour o’ yours, he said, miss ; he used to take 
great notice to her, the groom — everything. 
tShe used to go out aridin’. A hair pin, 
miss ?” 

“ No, Winnie, thanks.” 

“ He says she’s a fine rider ; showy, hand- 
some, that sort you know.” 

“ And when is it all to be ?” 

“ Well, they don’t know ; but once it’s set- 
tled, I do suppose it won’t be long delayed. 
Wliy should it ?” 

“ N.o why, once it’s settled, as you say.” 

“ And is it not well for him, poor fellow, he 
should have some one to love him, and look 
after him ? What’s the good o’ life without 
kindness, both o’ them handsome, and young, 
and loving. What more need they ask ?” said 
old Winnie. “And if they aren’t happy, who 
will ?” 

“ Yes, old Winnie, they will, very nappy, 
I’m sure ; and now I’ll bid you good night, 
I’m so tired^ very tired ; it’s a long tedious 
way, and I’m always wishing to come back to 
you, and dear old grannie, and poor old Gil- 
royd, where we were all so happy, where I 
always feel so safe — ^but I believe we always 
fancy the old times the pleasantest — ^when I 
was a child, I think — Good night, old Win- 
nie.” 


CHAPTER ^LVI. 

VA25E TREVOR AT THE WINDOW. 

William Maubray liked the appointment 
which his kind friend. Doctor Sprague, had 
virtually secured for him. It was not a great 
deal in salary, but opening abundant oppor- - 
tunities for that kind of employment which 
he most coveted, and for which, in fact, a very 
little training would now suffice to accomplish 
him. Literary work, the ambition of so many, 
not a wise one perhaps for those who have any 
other path before them, but to which men 
will devote themselves, as to a perverse mar- 
riage, contrary to other men’s warnings, and 
even to their own legible experiences of life 
— in a dream. 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


For three years he would sojourn in Paris. 
He preferred that distant exile to one at the 
gates of the early paradise from which he had 
been excluded. From thence he would send 
to his good friend, Doctor Sprague, those little 
intimations of his dioings and his prosperings, 
which he, according to his wisdom, might 
trasmit for inspection to the old lady at Gil- 
royd, who might, if she pleased, re-open a 
distant correspondence with the outcast. . 

Doctor Sprague, at 'William’s desire, had 
written to accejjt and arrange, and would hear 
by the return of post, or nearly, and then 
"William might have to leave at a day’s notice. 
Three years ! It was a long time, and Aunt 
Dinah old ! He might never see her or Gil- 
royd more, and a kind of home-sickness Sell 
upon him. 

At Gilroyd that morning. Aunt Dinah and 
Vi sat at breakfast Ute-d,-tete. The spirits of the 
old lady were not altogether so bright, the 
alacrity was gone, and though she smiled 
there was a sadness and a subsidence. Wil- 
liam was banished. The pang of that sharp 
decision was over. Some little help he should 
have circuitously through Doctor Sprague; 
but meet again on earth they never should. 
So that care was over ; and now her other tie, 
pretty Violet Darkwell, she, too, was going ; 
and although she sat beside her at the little 
breakfast-table, prattling pleasantly, and tell- 
ing her all the news of her friends, the Main- 
warings and their new neighbours, yet her 
v^ice sounded already faint in distance, and 
the old lady’s cares were pretty well over. 
Our business here is work of some sort, and 
not for ourselves ; and when that is ended it 
is time, as Fuller says, to put out the candle 
and go to bed. 

‘‘I’m going to see old Mrs. Wagget to-day. 
I promised her the day before I went to the 
Mainwarings,” said Vi, recalling this engage- 
ment. 

“But, my dear, some one may call here. 
Tour friends and mine will be looking in,” 
said Aunt Dinah, who knew that Trevor 
would arrive at about twelve o’clock. 

“Well, I can return their visits all the. 
same, and see thei^ in their own houses,” 
said Vi, “just as ^11.” 

“And what need to go to Mrs. Wagget to- 
day — to-morrow I fancy would answer,” said 
Miss Perfect. 

“ But I promisedj you know, and she wrote 
to remind me.” 

Promised to leave your old Granny alone 
again the day after your return I” she ex- 
claimed, a little huffed. 

“ Why, darling, it was you who made me 
promise, don’t you i^collect?” pleaded Miss 
Violet, “ the day we paid them our last visit.” 

“H’m — did I? Well, if there really was a 
promise, and I suppose you remember, we 
must keep it I suppose.” Aunt Dinah had 
made that kind of scrupulousness an em- 
phatic point in Violet’s simple education, and 
of course it could not now be trifled with. 
And now she did recollect the appointment, 
and something about walking to the school- 


VS 

house together at twelve o’clock — could any- 
thing be more unlucky ? Aunt Dinah looked 
up at the sky ; but no, it was not threatening 
— clear blue, with a pleasant white cloud or 
two, and a sea of sunshine. 

“ I’m so sorry. Granny, we settled, it would 
have been so much pleasanter to have staid 
with you to-day, and I’m afraid it’s very 
wicked ; but that school, except to very good 
people, it is really insupportable,” said Miss 
Vi, whose inflexible estimate of such appoint- 
ments rather vexed Aunt Dinah, and not the 
less that she could not deny that it was her 
own work. 

“It’s right in the main,” thought she. 
“ But there are distinctions — there’s danger, 
however, in casuistry, and so let it be,” 
There was an odd little sense of relief too in 
the postponement of the crisis. 

At about half-past eleven Vane Trevor ar- 
rived. He came by the path, and from the 
drawing-room window Miss Perfect, sitting 
there at her work, saw him, and knocked and 
beckoned with her slender mittened hand. 

“ He looks pale, poor young man,” he was 
smiling as he approached, “ and haggard too,” 
she pronounced, notwithstanding. “ He’s 
anxious I dare say,” and she pushed up the 
window as he aj)proached. “ What a sweet 
morning,” she said, taking off her gold spec- 
tacles, and smiling with that soft look of 
sympathy which in such cases makes even old 
women’s faces so pretty again. 

“ Charming morning — quite — really — quite 
charming.” 

She saw him peeping into the shadow of 
the room for a second figure. Aunt Dinah’s 
hand was now within reach, and they ex- 
changed a friendly greeting. 

“ My little Violet has returned,” she said, 
still holding Trevor’s hand kindly, “quite 
well — looking so well — and most unluckily I 
quite forgot ; but I had made an appointment 
for her this morning with Mrs. Wagget, and — 
and in fact I have always made the keeping 
of appointments so much a moral duty with 
her, that unless I had opened the subject on 
which you talked with me, and told her plain- 
ly that I expected your call, and that she 
must wait — which would ha\e been a — a — 
not a favourable way of proceeding ; and in 
fact I should have been obliged to say very 
badly what you would say, probably, very 
well ; and indeed it is a thing that makes me 
nervous — always did. When my dear sister 
was proposed for, I refused to take the message, 
in fact — I could not — and — he spoke for him- 
self — poor Charles Maubray — ^like a man and 

— and a very happy” Suddenly she stopped, 

and Trevor saw that tears were trickling 
slowly down her cheeks ; and her lips were 
resolutely closed; and she fumbled for a 
minute or two among her silks and worsteds ; 
and the young man felt that he liked her bet- 
ter than ever he did before ; and he sat on the 
window-stone outside, and they chatted kind- 
ly for a long time. Then they took a little 
walk together among the flowers, and under 
the chcsnutstill it grew to be near two o’clock,, 


74 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


and Aunt Dinah began to look for Violet’s 
return; and if the great Duke of Wellington 
on the field of Waterloo consulted his watch 
half so often as Mr. Vane Trevor did his on 
the green sward of Gilroyd that afternoon, 
I’m not surprised at it having excited all the 
observation it did, and being noted in the his- 
tory of that great day of thunder and sus- 
pense. 

Not the Iron Duke, however, but his Impe- 
rial rival on the field, when lowering his 
glass, he muttered, “ c’est les Prussien,” is the 
fitter representative of our friend Vane Trevor 
when, not Miss Violet Darkwell, but old Mrs. 
Wagget’s page, a thick and stunted “ buttons,” 
in rifle green regimental, moved down upon 
his flank, with a note in his hand for Miss 
Perfect, who was entreated by the writer to 
allow Miss Violet to stay dinner, with a prom- 
ise that she should arrive safe a^ Gilroyd in 
the brougham that evening at nine ! 

There was nothing for it but submission. 
It would not do, in presence of that dwarfish 
page, who was eyeing Vane with the curiosity 
of a youthful gossip, to order the young lady 
home, detain the young gentleman where he 
stood, and thus by a feat of discipline compel 
a meeting. 

So Miss Perfect despatched her reply, thank- 
ing — I hope it was sincerely — Felicia Honoria 
Wagget, and accepting the arrangement with 
the best grace she might. 

“ You must come in and take some lun- 
cheon,” said Aunt Dinah. 

Gilroyd was somehow so charming a spot, 
its resources had grown so inexhaustible, and 
old Miss Perfect so sensible and altogether in- 
teresting that Trevor was glad to linger a lit- 
tle, and postpone the evil hour of departure. 
It came at last, however, and Aunt Dinah 
called old Winnie Dobbs, and went listlessly 
to her room to make her toilet for her solitary 
dinner. 


■ 0 - 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

MISS perfect’s toilet. 

^‘Short the evenings growing,” said Aunt 
Dinah, looking out upon the slanting amber 
sun-light, that made the landscape all so 
golden. ‘‘Long shadows already I” and she 
glanced at her broad old gold watch. “ How 
the years go over us ; Winnie, you’ve been a 
long time with me now — ha, ha, a long time. 
When first you came to me, you thought me 
such a shrew, and I thought you such a fool, 
that we both thought a parting must very 
soon come of it — an old termagant and an old 
goose, continued Miss Perfect, nodding her 
head at her iiiiage in the glass. “We were 
not altogether wrong in that, perhaps, old 
Dobbs — ^on’t interrupt me — ^but, though we 
were neither lambs nor Solomons, we answer- 
ed one another. We never pa'^ted, and well 1 


live on so, don’t you think, to the end of the 
chapter, and' a pretty long chapter it has been, 
and pretty near the end, Winnie Dobbs, it 
must be for both of us. ‘ Here endeth the 
first lesson,’ and then comes the judgment, 
Winnie — ‘ here endeth the second lesson,’ — 
our two great lessons, death and judgment : 
think of that, my good old Winnie, when you 
hear Doctor Mainwaring, or Doctor Wagget, 
ii is now, saying, ‘ here endeth the first les- 
son,’ and ‘ here endeth the second lesson,’ and 
much good may it do you.” 

Aunt Dinah’s lectures on such themes were 
generally very odd, and her manner sometimes 
a little flighty — people who did not know her 
would have almost said waggish. But her 
handmaiden .received them always with a 
reverent acquiescence, having as full a faith 
in her mistress as honest Sancho, in his most 
trusting moods, ever reposed in the wisdom 
of the Knight of La Mancha. 

“ Death and j udgment, sure enough. Death, 
at any rate, that’s certain,” maundered old 
Dobbs. 

“ And judgment, too, I hope,” said Aunt 
Dinah, sharply. 

“ And judgment, too,” supplemented Win- 
nie. 

“ What do you mean, old Dobbs, as if one 
was more certain than the other ?” 

“Ay, indeed. What is there certain?— 
nothing — nothing,” she continued, not exactly 
apprehending her mistress. 

“Tut, tut! Dobbs. Give me a pin — jqxi 
don’t intend — but you sometimes say things 
that make my flesh creep — yes — you don’t 
know it — but you do.” 

“ Dear me ! ma’am,” ejaculated old Winnie, 
who was never very much startled by Aunt 
Dinah’s violent remarks. 

“ So, I think, old Dobbs, we shall soon have 
a wedding here,” said Miss Perfect, after a 
silence, changing the subject. 

“Well, well, I should not wonder, ma’am,” 
answered she. 

“ But you’re not to say one word about it to 
Miss Violet until she speaks to you — do you 
mind — not a word — and that will be, I think, 
to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow 1” exclaimed Winnie. 

“Not the' wedding, old goose, but the talk 
of it. I think it will be all settled to-morrow, 
and I’m glad, and I’m sorry. Give me my 
snuff-box — thanks. She has never spoken to 
you on the subject ?” said Aunt Dinah. 

“ No, no, ma’am ; never,” answered Winnie. 

“Nor to me. But I know all about it from 
another quarter, and I hope she’ll not be a 
fool. She’ll never have so good an offer 
again. I like him extremely. I have the 
best opinion of him, and the Sergeant is very 
much pleased ; indeed, it’s quite unexception- 
able, and I do expect, Winnie Dobbs, if she 
should talk to you, you’ll not try to frighten 
her. You and I are old maids, and I believe 
we chose wisely ; but we are not to frighten 
nervous girls by drawing terrific pictures of 
matrimony, and maundering about bad hus- 
bands and unprovided children ; young girls 


ALL IN THE DAKK. 


Y5 


are so easily friglitened away irom anything 
thatte prudent ; and, though we are old maids, 
there’s a good deal to he said on the other side 
of the question — so, do you mind ? 

“ Dear me, ma’am, I’d be sorry she wasn’t 
to get a good husband, I would.” 

“And you remember the last evening, 
Friday last, when we were in the study, at the 
table, you know, where the word ^ eminently’ 
came. Do you remember ?” 

“ Well, I ought to, I’m sure ; but my old 
head is not as good at bringing a thing to 
mind as it used. to be,” hesitated Winnie. 

“No more it is; but the word eminently 
was all we got that night, and you didn’t 
know what the question was. Well, I’ll tell 
you. I asked simply, will Violet Darkwell’s 
marriage — hook my body, please — will Violet 
Darkwell’s marriage prove happy? and the 
answer was eminently P 

“Ay, so it was. I’ll be bound, though I can’t 
bring it to mind ; but it's a hard word for the 
like o’ me to come round.” 

“ You are provoking, Winnie Dobbs,” ex- 
claimed her mistress, looking at herself de- 
fiantly in the glass. 

“Well, dear mel I often think I am,” 
acquiesced Winnie. 

“Well, Winnie, we are too old to change 
much now — the leopard his spots, and the 
Ethiopian his skin. There’s no good in try- 
ing to teach an old dog tricks. They must 
make the best of us now, Winnie, such as we 
arc; and if this wedding does happen. I’ll 
trick you out In a new dress, silk every inch, 
for the occasion, and the handsomest cap I 
can find in Saxton. I’ll make you such a 
dandy, you’ll not know yourself in the look- 
ing-glass. You’ll come to the church as her 
own maid, you know ; but you’re not to go 
away with her. You’ll stay with me, Winnie. 
I don’t think you’d like to leave Gilroyd.” 

Old Winnie hereupon witnessed a good and 
kindly confession. 


-o- 


CHAPTER XLVm. 

THE PRODIGAL. 

Then came one of those little silences, dur- 
ing which thoughts glide on with the stroke, 
as it were, of the last sentence or two ; and 
old Winnie Dobbs said at last : 

“ But I don’t think it would be like a wed- 
ding if Master Willie wasn’t here.” 

“ Stop that,” said Miss Perfect, grimly, and 
placing the end of the comb, with which she 
had been adjusting her grey locks, that lay 
smoothly over her resolute forehead, on a sud- 
den upon old Winnie’s wrist. “ I never change 
my mind when once I’ve made it up. You 
don’t know, and you carUt know, for your wits 
are always wool-gathering, all I’ve done for 
that boy — young man^ indeed, I ought to call 
him — nor the measure of his perversity and 


ingratitude. I’vG supported him — I’ve edu- 
cated him — I’ve been everything to him — and, 
at the first opportunity, he has turned on me. 

If I were a total stranger, a Cambridge doctor, 
or — or anything else that had never cared or 
thought about him, he’d have listened to what 
I had to say, and been influenced by it. Ho 
has refused me for his friend — renounced me 
— chosen other advisers — ^he’ll soon be mar- 
ried.” 

“ Dearie me I” interpolated old Winnie, in 
honest sympathy. 

“And although Mr. Trevor wrote to him 
yesterday to mention my view and conviction, 
that his marriage ought to be postponed for 
some little time, I know perfectly it won’t 
have the slightest effect, no more than those 
birds twittering.” 

The sparrows in the glittering ivy were 
gossipping merrily in the beams of the setting 
'sun. 

“ I simply told his friend, Mr. Trevor, and 
left it to him to acquaint him, not as having 
any claim whatever on my particular regard 
any longer, but as a — a human being — just 
that ; smdijyou know, Winnie Dobbs, when I 
make a resolution I can keep it ; vou remem- 
ber ” 

Miss Perfect had reached this point in her 
oration when old Winnie, who had been look- 
ing out of the window with unusual scrutiny, 
on a sudden exclaimed — 

“ I’m blest if here baint Master William a 
cornin’ I ” 

Aunt Dinah uttered a little exclamation, 
with her shut hand pressing on her breast, as 
she looked over her old servant’s shoulder. 

I don’t know how it vas, but as William 
Maubray entered the old iron gate, he heard 
the swift tread of a light foot, and Aunt 
Dinah, hurrying from the redbrick porch, ran 
towards him with a little cry, and “ my dar- 
ling I” and threw her thin arms round his 
neck, and they both stood still. 

“ Oh ! Willie, you’ve come back.” 

William did not answer, he was looking 
down in her face, pale, with his hands very 
gently on her shoulders 

“ Come in, darling,” she said at last. 

“Aw I to come in?” said William, wistfully 
and softly. 

And she looked at him, pleadingly with 
tears in her eyes, and said — 

“ Poor old Aunt Dinah.” 

And he leant down and kissed her. 

“ Come in ?” my boy — my Willie man — 
my only precious boy that I was so proud 
•of.” 

And William kissed h6r again, and cried 
over her thin shoulder, and she^ close laid to 
his breast, sobbed also ; each fel^ihe tremble 
in the other’s kindly arms. Thank God, it 
was made up now — the two loving hearts so 
near again — sweet and bitter the angelic love 
and mortal sadness — the sense of uncertainty 
and parting mingling with the great affection 
that welled up from the eternal fountain of 
love. Improve the hours of light. The time 
is near when the poor heart will tremble no 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


IQ 

more, and all tlie i7orld of loving thoughts lie 
in dust and silence. 

“ I am going to give you the silver tohacco- 
hox that was on Marston Moor — it is the most 
valuable thing I have — it has the inscription 
on the inside of the cover. It was in my 
foolish old head to send it to Doctor Sprague 
for you. It was your ancestor’s. The ^ War- 
wickshire Knight,’ we called him — Sir Edwin. 
He joined the Parliament, you know, and took 
the name of Perfect. I always intended the 
tobacco-box for you, Willie, even when I was 
offended — come in — come, my darling.'’ 

And she drew in the prodigal with her arm 
in his, and her hand on his fingers, liking to 
feel as well as to see and to hear him — to be 
quite sure of him ! 

“ Dinner, Tom, this minute,” said she to old 
Tom, who grinning spoke his hearty word of 
welcome in the hall, “ Master William is very 
hungry — he has come ever so far — tell Mrs. 
Podgers — come Willie — are you cold?” 

So before the bright fire, which was plea- 
sant that clear red, frosty evening, they sat 
— and looking fondly on him — her hand on 
his, she said — 

“ A little thin — certainly, a little thin — have 
you been quite well, Willie — quite well?” 

“ Yes, quite well — all right — and how have 
you been?” ho answered and asked. 

a Very well — that is, pretty well — indeed I 
can’t say I have — I’ve riot been well — but time 
enough about that. And tell me — and tell 
me about this news — about Miss Kincton 
Knox — is it true — is there really an engage- 
ment ?” 

“ I ve left them — I came from Cambridge. 
Engagement I by Jove ! I — I don’t know ex- 
actly what you mean.” 

So said William, who was struck by some- 
thing more in Aunt Dinah’s look and tone 
than could jDossibly arise from the contempla- 
tion merely of that engagement he had been 
fulfilling at Kincton. 

I — 1 heard — I thought — was not there — 
isn’t there” — Aunt Dinah paused, gazing dubi- 
ously on William — “ I mean — something of — 
of — she’s very handsome — I’m told.” 

“ Going to be married to Miss Kincton 
Knox ! — I assure you, if you knew her, such 
an idea would strike you as the most absurdly 
incredible thing the people who invented it 
could possibly have told you” — and WTlliam 
actually laughed. 

Ha !” exclaimed she, rather dismally-- 
“ that’s very odd — ^that is really very odd — it 
must have been a mistake — people do make 
such mistakes — it must — and you have heard 
of — Vi — it seems so odd — little Vi I There’s 
no mistake there^ for Mr. Trevor has had a 
long conversation with me, and has written to 
her father, and we both approve highly. But 
— ^but about Miss Kincton Knox — it was an 
odd mistake, though I can’t say I’m sorry, 
because — but it does not signify now ; you 
would never have waited, and so sure as you 
sit there, if you had not, you’d have re- 
gretted your precipitation all the days of your 
life.” 


And thrice she nodded darkly on William, 
in such a way as to assure him dhat 
Henbane had been looking after his in- 
terests.' 

After dinner she ordered Tom to call Winnie 
Dobbs, who had already had her dhat with 
William.- 

Winnie,” said she, producing a large key 
from her bag, “you must go to the store room 
and fetch one of the three bottles on the 
shelf.” 

“We dust them every week, old Winnie 
and I,” said she as soon as Dobbs had gone. 
“ They have been there fifteen years — Froh- 
tignac — the doctor ordered it — sillabubs in the 
morning, when I was recovering, and I don’t 
think they did me. a bit of good j and Tve must 
open one of them now.” 

William protested in vain. 

“ Yes, it’s the kind of wine young people 
like — they like it — sweet wine — ^j’ou must. I 
hear her coming. What are you dawdling 
there for, Winnie? Come in — bring it in — 
why donH you ?” 

So, sitting side by side, her hand on his, and 
looking often in his face as they talked, they 
sipped their wine ; and old Winnie, standing 
by, had her glass, and drank their healths, and 
declared it was “ a beautiful sight to see them.” 
And Aunt Dinah sent Tom to Saxton for some 
muffins for tea. Mr. William liked muffins — 
“ be quiet — you know you do.” 

“ I’m so sorry Violet should have been out, 
drinking tea at the Rectory ; but you’re to stay 
to-night ; you say you’ll be im time at Mr. 
Clever’s chambers at five to morrow evening ; 
and you have a London up train at half-past 
eleven at our station : and you must sleep at 
Gilroyd ; it would not be like the old times if 
you didn’t.” 


CHAPTER XUX. 

“ AFTER UEATH MY GHOST SHALL HAU^JT YOU.” 

It was a clear, frosty moonlight night, and 
the stars blinking and staring fiercly in the 
dark sky, as William Maubray peeped between 
the drawing-room shutters, and listened in 
vain for the ring of the wheels of the promised 
brougham ; and Aunt Dinah returned just as 
he let the curtains fall together, having in her 
hand a little card-board box tied round with 
a little blue ribbon. 

“ Blue, you see, for loyality — not to princes, 
but to right — I tied it with blue ribbon,” said 
Aunt Dinah, sitting down beside him, and un- 
tying the knot, and taking out the silver box, 
with embossed windmills, trees, dogs, and 
Dutchmen upon it. “ Here it is — the tobacco- 
box ; it is yours, mind and your eldest boy’s 
to have it — an heirloom,” said she, with a 
gentle smile, looking into that dim but sunny 
vista, and among the golden haired -and blue- 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


eyed group, painted infancy, where she would 
have no place ; ‘‘ and it’s never to go out of 
the family, and who knows what it may in- 
spire. It was a brave man’s tobacco-box — 
my hero. The courtiers, I believe did not 
smoke, and he did not like tobacco, indeed I 
can’t abide the smell, except in snuff — ^the 
kind you know you bring me sometimes ; but 
he would not be different from the other 
officers about him, and so he did smoke ; 
though, my dear father told me, always spar- 
ingly ; and so, dear William here it is, and I 
have had your name placed underneath, and 
you can take it with you.” 

Hereupon the tea and muffins entered, and 
after a time the conversation took another 
turn. 

“ And I’m not sorry, William, about that 
Kincton Knox business ; indeed I’m very glad ; 
I never knew before — I never knew intima- 
tions — and you know I implicitly believe in 
them — so peremptory upon any point as on 
that ; and you’re not to marry — mind, you 
shall promise me you will not — till after the 
expiration of five years.’ 

I think I might promise you safely enough. 
I’ll never marry,” said William, with a little 
laugh. 

“Don’t be rash — no — don’t promise more 
than I ask j but that you replied the old 

lady. 

“ You’ll not ask me to make promises, I’m 
sure ?” said William ; “I hate them so.” 

“ For five years,” said Miss Perfect, holding 
up her head a little sternly. 

“For five years, dear aunt?” replied Wil- 
liam, with a smile, and shaking his head. 

“ It is not much,” said Aunt Dinah, looking 
sadly down on her muffin, and chopping it 
lightly with the edge of her knife, as if she 
cut off the head of a miniature argument at 
every stroke. “ I don’t think it’s very much 
for a person, that is, who says he’ll 'never 
marry.” 

“ I’ll never marry — I’m sure I shall never 
marry — and yet I can’t promise aw?/thing. I 
hate vows ; they are sure to make you do the 
very thing you promise not to do,” said Wil- 
liam, half provoked, half laughing, “ and if 
I were to promise, I really can’t tell what the 
consequence might be.” 

“Ha!” said Miss Perfect. “Well! It es 
odd !” and up she got and stood very erect and 
grim on the hearth-rug. 

“ Now don’t, dear aunt, don’t be vexed with 
me ; but I assure you I could not. I canH make 
vows about the future ; but I really and 
honestly think I shall never be a married man ; 
it’s all — all — odiousP 

“Well,” said she with an effort, “I worvt 
quarrel. It was not much — five years:” A 
little pause here she allowed William to re- 
flect upon its reasonableness, but he made no 
sign. “ Not a great deal ; but I won’t quarrel 
— there — I won’t,” and she extended her hand 
to iiim in amity, and he clasped it very affec- 
tionately. 

“ But I’ll speak to you seriously. I’m not 
fanciful, I think, I don’t believe things with- 


er 

out evidence, and I don’t much care what very 
young, or very prejudiced people may think 
about me, that which I know I declare, and I 
don’t shrink an atom — no, not at the stake.” 

W illiam looked at her with respectful amaze- 
ment. 

“ No — truth first — ^truth always — in the face 
of ridicule and bigotry never abandon the truth. 
I say I know perfectly well we are surround- 
ed by spirits — disprove it if you can — and 
unequivocally have they declared themselves 
to me, and from that one among them, who is 
always near me, who is present at this moment, 
a friendly spirit — Henbane ! Why should I 
hesitate to name him ? — I have learned the- 
condition^ I may say of your fate and I won’t 
hide it, nor suffer you, if I can help it, to dis- 
regard it. Marry for five years you shan’t. 
If I be alive I’ll leave no stone unturned to 
prevent it ; and if I’m dead, there’s nothing 
that spirit can do, if you so much as harbour 
the thought. I’ll not do to prevent it. I’ll bo 
about you, be I good or evil, or mocking. I’ll 
trouble you. I’ll torment you. I’ll pick her 
eyes out, but I won’t suffer you to ruin your- 
self. 

Preposterous as was this harangue. Aunt 
Dinah delivered it like a Pythoness, with a 
vehemence that half awed her nephew. 

“ I’ll speak of this no more,” she said, more 
like herself, after two or three minutes silence. 
“ I’ll not mention it — I’ll let it rest in your 
mind — it’s nothing to me, but for your sake, 
my mind’s made up though, and if I have 
power in this world or the next, you’ll hear of 
me, remember that, William Maubray.” 

William was bound to listen to this flighty 
rigmarole, with respect as coming from his 
aunt^ but her spiritual thunders rather amused 
than alarmed him, and of Henbane he enter- 
tained, I must confess, the meanest possible 
opinion. Connected with all this diablerie, 
indeed there was but one iffienomenon which 
had unpleasantly fastened upon his imagina- 
tion, and that was the mysterious adventure 
which had befallen him in this old house of 
Gilroyd when in his bed, his wrist was seized 
arid held fast in the grasp of an unseen hand, 
and the intensely disagreeable sensations of 
that night recurred to his memory oftener than 
he would care to admit. 

“ I wonder you have so little curiosity, 
sometimes,” said Aunt Dinah, speaking-now, 
though gravely, much more in her usual way, 
“ you young people think, you are so far away 
from the world of spirits, material and scepti- 
cal. You’ve never once cared to ask me for 
Elihu Bung. I’ll lend it to you with pleasure, 
while you are here. But that i^ortion of the 
Almighty’s empire has no interest — is dead-*— 
for you.” 

There was abundant truth in this reproach, 
for William indeed could not without great 
offence, have told his aunt what rubbish he 
thought it all. But said he : 

“ I dare say it is very curious.” 

“Not a bit curious; that’s not the word; 
it is serious and it’s certain ; bread and butter 
is not very curious, your foot is not very curi- 


ATJ. IN THE DAEK. 


■78 

ous, nor your hat ; hut there they are, facts ! 
that’s all. I’m glad you say you have no 
present intention of marrying, in fact, dear 
William, the idea has caused me the most 
extreme anxiety, having the warning I have ; 
as for me, however, my course is taken. I 
expect to he Avhat we call a mocking spirit — 
yes a mocking spirit— and I’ll play you such 
tricks as will make you think twice, if such 
an idea should be in your head. Mind I told 
you, though I be dead you shan’t escape me,” 
and she smiled oddly, and nodded her head, 
and then frowned a little bit. 

‘•But I dare say it won’t happen. Now 
that this Kincton Knox business has turned 
out a mistake — thank God — a canard. There’s 
no hurry ; you are too young. Kemember it 
was on the 28th of September the warning 
came, live years, and you count from that ; 
but goodness knows you have time enough. 
I think I hear the brougham.” 

William was already at the window and the 
gate-bell ringing. 

“ And William, remember, not a word to 
Violet about Mr. Trevor — not a hint.” 

“ Oh ! certainly,” cried he, and he was at 
the hall door in time to open the carriage 
door, and take little Violet’s hand. 

“ Oh ! you come ?” said she, smiling, and 
descending lightly with a bouquet of old Miss 
Wagget’s best flowers in her fingers. “ I had 
not an idea — only just come, I suppose ?” 

“ Yes, this evening ; and you quite well, 
Violet?” 

“ Quite well, flourishing. Grannie in the 
drawing-room ? And I’m glad you’ve come 
to Gilroyd, poor old Grannie, I think she has 
been in very low spirits ; let us go to her.” 


o 


CHAPTER L. 

% VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 

Violet seemed merry and good-natured, Wil- 
liam thought, but somewhat cold. No one 
else would have perceived it ; but this little 
chill, hardly measurable by the moral ther- 
mometer, was for him an Icelandic frost, in 
which his very heart ached. 

This pretty girl kissed Aunt Dinah, and 
put ofl' her bonnet, and out gushed her beau- 
tiful dark brown hair, but kept her other 
mufflers on, and. said smilingly towards 
William, 

“ I was so surprised to see him at the door, 
I could scarcely believe my eyes.” 

“ And looking very well — a little thin per- 
haps, but very well,” added Aunt Dinah. 

“And how is Mr. Wagget?” asked Wil- 
liam, who did not care to come formally 
under critical discussion. 

“ Oh, very well, and Mi^s Wagget too ; but 
I don’t know that you’ve made her acquaint- 
ance. She’s quite charming, and I doubt very 


much whether so susceptible a person as you 
would do wisely in putting himself in her 
way.” 

She has been hearing that nonsense about 
Miss Kincton Knox, thought William, and he 
said rather drily, 

“ I’m not a bit susceptible. How did I ever 
show it ? I’d like to know who I ever was in 
love with in my life. Susceptible, by Jove ! 
but I see you’re laughing. 

Miss Vi looked curiously at him for a mo- 
ment, and then she said, 

“We heard quite another ^,ccount of him, 
didn’t we. Grannie ?” 

“It was all a mistake though, it seems,” 
said Aunt Dinah. 

“ I should like to know who the kind per- 
son is who cares enough about me to invent 
all these lies.” 

“The ladies there liked you extremely, we 
have the best authority for believing that,” 
said Miss Perfect. 

“ I don’t know ; I’m sure they detest me 
now, and I really don’t know any reason they 
have ever had for doing either.” 

“Detest you, my dear I” exclaimed Aunt 
Dinah. 

“Mrs. Kincton Knox is awfully offended 
with me, I don’t know for what. I’ve nothing 
on earth to charge myself with, and I really 
don’t care two pence, and I hate to think 
about them,” said William testily ; “ and I’d 
rather talk about anything else.” 

Miss Vi looked at William, and glanced at 
Aunt Dinah, and then laughed, with a pleasant 
little silvery cadence. 

“Dear me! Grannie, what a disappoint- 
ment. We simple people in this part of the 
world have been lost for weeks in wonder 
and respect — we heard such stories of your 
prowess, and here comes the lady-killer home, 
harmless William Maubray, as he went.” 

“Just so,” said he. “Not William the 
Conqueror — nothing of the kind ; and I don’t 
think it likely I shall ever try to kill a lady, 
nor a lady ever kill me. Weapons of iron 
won’t do now-a-days, and a knight-errant of 
that sort must arm himself with the precious 
metals, and know how to talk the modern 
euphuism, and be a much finer man than ever 
I can hope to be ; and even so, when all’s 
done, it’s a poor proS;^ssion enough. By Jove ! 
I don’t envy them their adventures, and their 
exploits, and their drubbings and their Dul- 
cineas — the best among them is often laid on 
his back ; and I’m not ashamed to say I have 
more of Sancho Panza than of the Don in my 
nature.” 

“ He rails like a wounded knight — doesn’t 
he. Grannie ?” laughed Violet. 

“ I’d like to know who wounded me,” said 
he. 

“Wc’ll take your own account, William,” 
said Aunt Dinali, who saw that he was vexed 
and sore, “ and whoever is to blame, I’m very 
glad — Oh ! prayers,” and the little household 
of Gilroyd trooped solemnly into the room, 
and the family devotions were performed, 
William officiating in his old capacity. 


ALL IN THE DABK. 


79 


“■William leaves us early tomorrow/^ said 
Aunt Dinah, glancing regretfully at him. 

“ Oh?” said Miss Violet. 

“ Yes, to London ! and from London perhaps 
to Paris, there to remain for some time,” said 
William, spiritedly. 

“Charming excursion,” exclaimed the 
young lady. 

“ Why London is not particularly lively at 
this moment, and I hope to be pretty hard 
worked in Paris. There’s nothing very charm- 
ing about it, but I’m glad to go and thinking 
this a little strong he added, “ because it is 
time I should begin, if ever I am to do any 
good for myself or any one else.” 

“ He’s like the good boy in a story-book, he 
makes such wise reflections ; and I’m certain 
he’ll grow rich and prosper,” said Miss Vi to 
Aunt Dinah. “ My only wise saw is, ‘ Early 
to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, 
wealthy, and wise.’ I learned it from good 
old Winnie, and I’m going to act on it now. 
Good nigh<i, dear old Grannie,” and she kissed 
her in a fond little embrace. “All thiswise 
talk makes one sleepy, I think ; and I’ve been 
walking about with Miss Wagget all day. 
Good night.” This was to William with a 
smile. 

“Good night, he answered quietly, and a 
little bitterly, as without smiling he took her 
hand. Then he lighted her candle and gave 
it to her with a little nod, and a smile, and 
stood at the door while she ran up the broad 
stair, humming an air. 

He came back, looking sulky, and sat down 
with his hands in his pocket, looking at the 
fire-irons that rested on the fender. 

“ How do you think she’s looking ?” asked 
Aunt Dinah. 

“Very well ; much as usual,” said William, 
with a dreary carcles^ess. 

“ I think she’s looking particularly beauti- 
ful,” said Miss Perfect. 

“ Perhaps so — very likely ; but I’ve plenty 
of work before me, thank God, the sort of 
work I like ; and I’m in no admiring mood, 
like Trevor and other fellows who have noljj^- 
ing better to do. I like work. ‘ Man delights 
not me, nor woman neither.’ And,^ dear Aunt, 
I’mn, little bit sleepy, too; but I’ll see you 
early, snan’t I ?” 

And William yawned dismally. 

“ Good night, dear, it is better,” said Aunt 
Dinah ; “ but I don’t know, it strikes me 
that you and Vi are not as friendly together 
as you used to be, and I think it is a pity.” 

“Not so friendly,” exclaimed William. 
“ Ha, ha ! That did not strike me ; but I 
assure you there’s no change, at least that I 
know of — none on my part, I’m sure. I sup- 
pose it’s just that our heads are full of other 
things; we have each got our business to 
think of — don’t you see 7 — and her’s you know, 
is very serious,” and William Maubray laughed 
again a little bitterly. 

“ Well, she is a dear little creature, an af- 
fectionate little soul. I’ve always found her 
quite the same,” said Aunt Dinah. 

“ I’m sure she is — I .dare say — I don’t see 


why she shouldn’t, that is, as affectionate as 
other young ladies. You know it isn’t I who 
say she’s changed.” 

“ I did not say sMs changed more than 
you. I think you don’t seem so kindly as 
used, and more disposed to be agreeable ; and 
I think, considering you have been so long 
together, and are so soon to part, and life is so 
uncertain, I think it a pity ; and you can’t sec 
even how pretty she is looking.” 

“ I must have been thinking of something 
else, for she is in particularly good looks ;” 
and he added, quite like himself, “ Yes, in- 
deed, I think she improves ev^ry time I see 
her, but that may be the old partiality, you 
know. Good night. Aunt Dinah.” 

Aunt Dinah took both his hands to hers, 
and kissed him. 

“ Good night, my dear William — my dear 
boy. You will never know, dear William, all 
the pain you have cost me. Pray, my dear 
child, for a reasonable spirit, and that you 
may have power to conquer the demon of 
pride — the besetting sin of youth, and, my 
dear William, you must reconsider the ques- 
tion of ordination, and pray for light. God 
bless you, and don’t forget to put out your 
candle. There ” — another kiss — “ Good night.” 


•O' 


CHAPTER , LI 

A DREAM. 

“Affectionate indeed!” said William. “I 
do believe they have no other idea but to 
mortify and wound every one that seems to 
like them — cats and monkeys.” 

William had closed the door ; he poked his 
fire, and sat before it eyeing it scornfully. 

“I can’t think why anyone likes them-^ 
why we go on liking them — they are so odious. 
I suppose they used not to be so. There’s 
Aunt Dinah— kind, true old Aunt Dinah— she 
never could have been a heartless, insolent 
creature like that— never. We are all grow- 
ing worse ; the world will soon be ripe for 
judgment.” 

And William pulled off his coat as savagely 
as if he was going to fight “Old Crump” 
again, behind the Chapel at Rugby. 

“ I hate myself for liking her. No, I don’t 
like her — for admiring her ; but she is pretty . 
She is— there’s no good in denying it— she’s 
awfully pretty— ZoveZ?// and till that great 
goose, Trevor, came and turned her head with 
his boots, and his gloves, and his ' house, and 
his trumpery, she was the nicest little creature 
in the world. Yes, there was no one like her ; 
not one on earth. I’ll maintain.” 

And he knocked his hand so hard on the 
back of the chair beside him, that he thought 
his knuckles were bleeding. 

“ I wish they were, by Jove 1” he said. “ I 
don’t care what happens, I don’t care if I was 
knocked to smash, to think of that great. 


80 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


gawky, goose. What on earth can she see in 
him ? Such rot ?” 

“ Yes, she is, — ^there’s no use in disputing it 
— she’s the prettiest girl I ever saio^ in all my 
Z?/e,” he went on, putting himself down and 
overhearing his affected indifference with hon- 
est vehemence. Aunt Dinah has promised 
me her carte de visite. Pll have it copied in 
large the first money I have, in Paris, at that 
great fellow’s there — and tinted ; and I’ll 
make old Winnie get me a lock of her hair ; I 
have the one safe ’when she was nine^ years 
old — so bright — who w^ould have thought it 
would ever have grown so dark ? Old Winnie 
will get it for me. If I asked her she’d only 
refuse, or put me off some way. Pll hang up 
her picture and the little drawing of Gilroyd 
in my garret in Paris, and I’ll he a jolly 
old bachelor. Marr}'- in five years, indeed ? 
My poor aunt might easily find something 
more likely tp fret about. Yes, Pll he the 
most‘trcmendous, dry old quiz of a bachelor ; 
and when she and her precious husband come 
^ to Paris, as they Avill some day. I’ll get a peep 
at her, perhaps, in the theatres and places, 
from some dark corner, and I wonder what 
she will be like then — always handsome, 
those eyes, and her lips so scarlet, and her 
beautiful hair ; and I’ll compare her wuth 
little Vi of Gilroyd. She may be handsomer 
and more showy, but the little Vi of Gilroyd 
will always be the brightest and best.” 

In this mood William rambled over many 
old recollections of the place and people he 
was leaving, and he laid his waistcoat on the 
chair much more gently than his coat ; and he 
thought how Aunt Dinah had taught him to 
say his prayers long ago, under that friendly 
roof, and so down he kneeled and said them 
with a sadder heart, and rose up with a great 
sigh, and a sense of leave-taking that made 
his heart ache. 

And now his candle was out, and he soon 
fast asleep ; ‘ and again he had a dream so 
strange that I must relate it. 

The scenery of his dream, as before, pre- 
sented simply the room in which he lay, with 
the flickering firelight in which he had gone 
to sleep. He lay, in his vision, in his bed, 
just as he really did, with his back to the fire 
and looking toward the curtains, which were 
closed on the side between him and the door, 
when he heard a sound of naked feet running 
up to his chamber door, which was flung open 
with a precipitation which made the windows 
rattle, and his bed curtain was drawn aside, 
and Miss Perfect, with only a sheet, as it 
seemed, wrapt over her night dress, and with 
a face white, and fixed with horror, said, “ Oh, 
my God! William, I’m dead — don’t let me 
go 1” and under the clothes she clasped his 
wrist with a hand that felt like cold metal. 
The figure crouched, with its features ad- 
vanced towards his, and William Maubray 
could neither speak nor move, and lay so for 
some time, till with a Ho !” he suddenly re- 
covered the power of motion, and sprang out 
of bed at the side farthest from the visionary 
Aunt Dinah j and as he did so, he distinctly 


felt the grasp of a cold hand upon his wrist, 
which just as before, vanished as he recovered 
the full possession ' of his waking faculties, 
leaving, however, its impression there. 

William lighted his candle at the fire, and 
listened for a long time before he could find 
courage to look to the other side of the bed. 
When he did, however, no sign of Aunt Dinah, 
sane or mad, was there. The door was shut, 
and the old fashioned furniture stood there 
prim and faded as usual, and everything 
maintained its old serenity. On his wrist, 
however, were the marks of a recent violent 
pressure, and William was seized with an un- 
controllable anxiety about aunt Dinah which 
quite overcame his panic ; and getting on his 
clothes, and making a preliminary survey of 
the galleryj which was still and empty, he 
hurried to Aunt Dinah door, and Imocked. 

“It’s I — William. How are you, aunt? 
are you quite well ?” asked he, in reply to her. 

“ Who’s there ? what’s all that ?” 

“ I, William.” 

“Come in, child; you. may. I’m in my 
bed ; what takes you out of yours ?” 

“ I had a dream, and fancied you were in 
my room, and — and ill.” 

“ Pooh, pooh, my dear William, get back to 
your room. It is all a fancy. I’ve been here 
in bed for an hour or more, reading my dear 
fathers’s sermon on the Woman of Endor.” 

There she was, sitting up in a flannel dress- 
ing gown, with the sometime dean’s large and 
legible manuscript before her, and no doubt 
investigating, with the lights thrown by Elihu 
Bung, the phenomena in which the witch of 
those remote times dealt. 

“ I heard you talk a little time ago,” said 
Aunt Dinah, after a short and curious stare at 
William’s pallid countenance. 

“ No,” said William,*“ I didn’t ; I heard it 
too. It was that in fact that partly alarmed 
me. It is very odd.” 

“ Were there knockings? inquired she. 

“No, no knocking,” said William; “it 
(mened with a push.” 

Whatj my dear ?” demanded Aunt Dinah, 
sitting very erect as she gazed with a dark 
curiosity in William’s face, and abandoned the 
dean’s manuscript on the coverlet. 

“The door,” he answered. “It is veiy 
odd. It’s the most horrid thing I ever heard 
of. I’m sorry I slept in that room.” 


■ 0 - 


CHAPTER LH. 

NEXT MORNINa. 

Aunt Dinah leaned on her thin hand, looking 
with something like fear at William fixed and 
silently. 

“What o’clock is it, aunt?” asked he. 

“ Three minutes to four,” she replied, con- 
sulting her broad old gold watch, and then 
holding it to her ear. “ Yes ; three minutes 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


81 


to four. I thought it was later. You saw 
somethingj William Mauhray — you did. You 
have seen something ; haven’t you ?” 

So William, hit hy hit, scared and very un- 
comfortable, recoimted his adventure, to which 
Miss Perfect listened attentively, and she 
said — 

“ Yes — ^it is remarkable— -very wonderful — 
if anything can be said to be particularly so, 
where all is marvellous. I understand it, 
quite.” 

“ And what is it ? asked he. 

“ The spirit key again — my name and image 
— don’t you see ; and ^ don’t let me go,’ and 
the other intimation — take it all together, it’s 
quite plain.” 

“ Do tell me, dear aunt, what you mean ?” 

“ It all connects, dear William, with what 
I told you ; the grasp of that hand links you 
with the spirit world ; the image was mine — 
my double^ I do suppose. Hand me that snuff- 
box. It spoke as if after my death j it urged 
upon you to maintain your correspondence 
with me — ‘don’t let me go’ — and it plainly 
intimates that I shall have the power of doing 
as I promised and certainly shall, in case you 
should meditate disregarding my solemn 
warning about your marriage, and think of 
uniting yourself, William dear, to any one, 
before the expiration of five"' years — ^there’s 
the whole thing in a nutshell.” 

“ May I sit here fora little ?” asked William, 
who from childish years had been accustomed 
to visit his aunt’s room often, and when 
she was ill used to sit there and read for 
her. 

“ Certainly, my dear ; but don’t go to sleep 
and fall into the fire.” 

Aunt Dinah resumed her sermon, with now 
and then a furtive reference to Elihu Bung, 
concealed under her pillow, and William 
Maubray sat near the bed with his feet on the 
fender ; and thus for nearly five minutes — he 
looking on the bars, and she on her sermon 
and her volume of reference — at the end of 
that time she laid it again on the coverlet, and 
looked for some time thoughtfully on the back 
of William’s head ; an^ she said so suddenly 
as to make him start — 

“ Five years is nothing ; it’s quite ridiculous 
making a fuss about it. I’ve known girls 
engaged that time, and longer, too j for ten 
and even twelve years.” 

“ Pretty girls they must have been by that 
time,” thought William, who was recovering 
from the panic of his vision. 

“And I think they made fonder couples 
than people that are married three weeks after 
their engagement,” added Aunt Dinah. 
“ Therefore do have a little patience.” 

“ But I’m in no hurry about anything,” 
said William ; “ least of all about marriage. 
I iiave not an idea ; and if I had I couldn't ; 
and my honest belief is I shall die an old 
bachelor,” 

“ H’m ! I never mind what people say on 
that subject,” said Miss Perfect ; “ but I hope 
what you’ve experienced to-night will be a 
warning. Yes, dear William, I’m very glad it 
6 


has happened ; it is always well to know the 
truth — it may affright, but when it comes in 
the shape of warning it is always welcome — 
that is it ought to be. I needed nothing 
more to convince me, but you did, and you’ve 
got it. Depend upon it, if you disobey you 
are a ruined man all your days ; and if I die 
before the time. I’ll watch you as an old grey 
cat watches a mouse — ha, ha, ha ! and if you 
so much as think of it. I’ll plague you — I 
will. Yes, William, I’ll save you in spite of 
yourself, and mortal was never haunted and 
tormented as you’ll be, till you give it up.” 

William could not have forborne a joke, 
though a kindly one, upon such a speech at 
another time ; but somehow now he could not. 
The spectre of Aunt Dinah cowering at his 
bedside was present with him ; and when she 
bid him good-night, although he was ashamed 
to confess his trepidation, he hated a return 
to that old-fashioned room where he had 
twice experienced the same kind of visita- 
tion. 

When he returned he made up his fire, drew 
his window curtains wide open to admit the 
earliest streak of sunrise, pulled his bed-cur- 
tains back to the posts, and placed his candle 
on the table in the centre of the room, resolved 
that Aunt Dinah’s double should not at all 
events steal on him unawares. 

At last the pleasant October morning came. 
The wind that had blown Avildly in the night 
was quiet now, having left its spoil of yellow 
leaves strewn upon the lawn or rustling over 
the gravel walks. 

The cheerful yellow light cleared the room 
of all unearthly shadows, and the song of 
birds refreshed his ears, as he made his early 
tiolet 

The joyous bark of little Pysche scamper- 
ing before the windows, the call of the driver 
to his team, the whistling of birds, the voices 
of the inmates of the house, and at last the 
laugh of Violet Darkwell from the porch. 

Beautiful music ! like merry spirits in the 
air, departing soon to be heard no more. He 
stood with his hand on his half open door — - 
smiling — scarcely breathing — listening, as 
never did Fanatico per la musica^ to the favour- 
ite roulade of Prima Donna. It ceased — ^he 
listened still, and then sighed in the silence, 
and seemed to himself to waken. 

In his ear that music sounded sadly, and 
his heart was full as he ran down the 'stairs 
smiling. And pretty Violet’s slender figure 
was leaning at the side of the porch ; and she 
looked up, knowing his step, with a smile. 
The old kindly smile, for a moment, and then 
its character a little changed, something of 
the inscrutable but beautiful reverses of girl- 
hood, which baffled, and interested, and 
pained William so. He would have liked to 
have called her Vi. The name was at his lips ; 
but there was something of pride, which even 
thus, while his boat is on the shore and his 
bark is on the sea, restrained him. 

“ Miss — mind I’m calling you rightly — Miss 
Violet Darkwell, I’m so glad I’ve found you 
so early,” ho said, smiling, “ my hours — I 


82 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


ought to say minutes — are so precious. I go 
at half-past ten, and I hardly saw or heard 
you last night, you were so anxious to be off.” 

“You forget how wise we all were, and 
wisdom, though it’s a very good thing, is not 
lively ; and its chief use, I suppose, is that — 
a sort of lullaby, for I’m sure nobody ever 
minds it. You don’t, nor /, nor darling Gran- 
nie ; and I think if you wanted to be put to 
sleep there would be nothing like having a 
tranquil old sage, like Winnie Dobbs, at your 
bedside to repeat a string of her sayings, 
like ^ early to bed and early to rise make a 
man healthy, wealthy, and wise and besides 
being very wise, I think you were just, if it 
is not very disrespectful to say so, ever so 
little cross, so that altogether I thought it 
best to go to bed and to sleep as fast as I 
could.” 

“ I quite forget. Was I cross? I dare say 
I was. I think ill-temper is one expression 
of suffering ; and I have not been very happy 
lately,” said William. 

“You have been strangely misrepresented, 
then,” said the young lady, slily. 

“ So I have ; and I do so wish you’d stop 
about that nonsense. You can’t conceive un- 
less you knew the people 

“I thought she was very pretty,” inter- 
rupted Miss Darkwell, innocently. 

“ So she is — ^perhaps — I dare say ; but pretty 
or plain, as I said before, I’m not in love with 
her. J’m not in love, thank heaven, with any 
one, and I :” 

“ Come in to prayers, William dear,” Aunt 
Dinah called aloud from the parlour door. 
“ I’ve had breakfast early, expressly for you, 
and you must not delay it.” 



CHAPTER LIIL 

THE FLOWER. 

At breakfast the little party had a great deal 
to talk about, topics of hope, and topics of 
regret, glanced at in all sorts of spirits, sad 
and cheerful, black spirits and white, blue 
spirits and grey but on the whole one would 
have said, looking on and a stranger to all 
that was possibly passing within, that it was 
a cheerful meal. 

“.Five miles and a half to the Station, and 
the up train at ^ eleven forty-five.’ The cab, 
or whatever it is, will be here at half-past 
ten, and then good-by. Farewell, perhaps, 
for three years to Gilroyd,” so said William, 
as he and Violet Darkwell stood side by side, 
looking out from the window, upon the glow- 
ing autumnal landscape. 

“ Three years I you don’t mean to say you’d 
stay away all that time, without ever coming 
to see Grannie ” 

“ Of course if she wants me I’ll come ; but 
should she not^ and should she at the same 
time continue, as I hope she will, quite well, 
and should I be kept close to my work, as I 


expect, it’s sure to turn out as I say. Three 
years — yes, it is a long time — room for plenty 
of changes, and changes enough, great ones, 
there will be, no doubt.” 

The uplands of Revington formed the back- 
ground of the pretty prospect before him, and 
it needed the remembrance of the promise he 
had made to Aunt Dinah to prevent his peak- 
ing with less disguise, for he always felt of 
late an impetuous longing, almost fierce, to 
break through conventional hypocrisies, and 
lay bare his wounded heart, and upbraid, and 
implore, in the wildest passion before Violet 
Darkwell. To be alone with her, and yet say 
nothing of all that was swelling and rolling 
at his heart — was pain. And yet to be alone 
with her, even in this longing and vain an- 
guish, and near her was a strange despairing 
delight. 

“ Oh, yes, everyone changes every day 
almost, except dear Grannie and old Winnie 
Dobbs. I’m sure 1 change, and so do you, 
and what won’t three years do ? You’ve 
changed very much, and not for the better,” 
and saying this Miss Violet laughed. 

“ My changes, be they what they may, don’t 
seem to trouble you much,” replied William. 

“ Trouble ? — not at all. I dare say they 
are improvements, though I don’t like them,” 
laughed she. 

“ I don’t think I’m a hit changed. I know 
I’m not, in fact. Tell me any one thing in 
which I am changed.” 

“Well, it is generally] you have grown so 
disagreeable, that’s all — it is not much to me, 
but I dare say it will be to other peoi)le,” said 
she. 

“ I’m disagreeable — ^yes, of course— oecause 
I have my opinion about men and things, 
and fools and nonsense. I don’t know any- 
thing I’ve said to you, at least since I came 
yesterday, that could annoy you. I have not 
mentioned a single subject that could possibly 
even interest you. I dare say it is tiresome 
my talking so much as Aunt Dinah makes 
me, about myself. But I couldn’t help it.” 

“ It won’t do, William ; you know very well 
how cross you always* are now, at least with 
me, not that I mind it much, but there’s no 
denying.” 

“You accused me of that before, and I said 
I was sorry. I — ^perhaps I am. I’m going 
away, and everything breaking up, you know, 
and you must make allowances. I used not 
to be cross long ago, and I’m not changed. 
No — I’m the same — I never said an unkind 
word to you, Vi, all the time when you were 
a little thing, and if I ever speak differently 
now, it is not from unkindness, only that 
things have gone wrong with me, and I’ve 
seen soniething of the world ; and things hap- 
pen to sour one, and — I don’t know — but I’m 
not changed. You mustn’t think it now that 
I’m going away. I’m such a fool, I’m such a 
beast, I can’t help talking bitterly sometimes, 
and sometimes I think I am a — a fiend al- 
most, but I hope I am not as bad as I seem.” 

So spoke this Penruddock, who fancied 
himself soured for life, and soliloquized at 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


83 


times in the vein of Elshender of Miickle- 
stane Muir, but still cherished at the age of 
three-and-twenty some sparks of his original 
humanity. 

There goes Tom with my things to the 
gate. Yes, it ought to be here now,” said 
William, looking at his watch. “ I’ll send you 
something pretty from Paris if you let me ; 
nothing very splendid, you know, only a little 
reminder such as a poor beggar like me can 
oifer,” and he laughed, not very merrily. 

And I shall hear all the news from Aunt 
Dinah, and send her all mine; and I like 
flowers. I always remember the Gilroyd 
flowers along with you. You were always 
among them, you know, and will you give me 
that little violet — a namesake. No one ever 
refuses a flower, it is the keepsake every one 
gets for the asking.” 

“Here it is,” said Violet, with a little laugh, 
but looking not mockingly, but a little down- 
ward and oddly, and William placed it very 
carefully in a recess of his complicated purse, 
that was a cardcase also, and I know not what 
else beside. He was on the point of saying 
something very romantic and foolish, but sud- 
denly recollected himself, and pulled up at the 
verge just before he went over. 

“ This is a souvenir of very old days, you 
know,” said William, remembering Trevor, 
how humiliating because vain any love-mak- 
ing of his own must prove, “ of a very early 
friend — one of your earliest. Wasn’t I ?” 

“Yes, so you were, a very good-natured 
friend, and very useful. Sometimes a little 
bit prosy, you know, always giving me excel- 
lent advice ; and I think I always, often^ at 
least, listened to your lectures with respect. 
But why is it, will you tell me who know 
everything, that gentlemen always ask for a 
rose or a violet, or a flower of some sort, as a 
keepsake? Nothing so perishable. Would 
not a thimble or even a slipper be better ? I 
suppose you have us all in what you used to 
call a hortus siccus^ brown roses, and yellow 
violets, and venerable polyanthuses, thor- 
oughly dried up and stiif as chips, and now 
and then with a sort of triumph review your 
prisoners, and please yourselves with these 
awful images of old maidhood. How can we 
tell what witchcrafts go on over our withering 
types and emblems. ^ Give me back my violet 
and you shall have a hair-pin instead.” 

“ Many thanks ; I’ll keep my violet, how- 
ever. It may grow dry and brown to other 
eyes to mine it will never change. Just be- 
cause it is an enchanted violet, and there is a 
spell upon my eyes as often as I look on it, 
and the glow and fragrance will never pass 
away.” 

“ Very good song, and very well sung ! only 
I suspect that’s the usual speech, and you 
asked for the violet for an opportunity of 
making it.” 

At this moment Aunt Dinah entered the 
room, accompanied by old Winnie Dobbs, 
supporling a small hamper, tray fashion. 
William recognised the old commissariat of 
Gilroyd in this nutritious incumbrance, against 


which he had often and vainly protested, as 
'he now did more faintly by a smile and lifting 
his hands. 

“Now there’s really very little in this ; just 
a fowl cut up, half a ham, one of the Sax- 
ton plumcakes, and a pint bottle with a little 
sherry. You’ll find bread by itself, and some 
salt in white paper, and a few Ripston pip- 
pins, and it is really no weight at all ; is it, 
Winnie ?” 

“ No, nothing to them porter fellows. What 
else be they paid for, if it baint to carry 
loads ; what’s a hamper like this here to one 
of them? and he’ll want something on the 
way. You’ll be hungry, you will. Master 
William.” 

“ And whatever’s left will be of use to you 
when you reach your destination,” said Aunt 
Dinah, repeating her ancient formula on 
similar occasions. “ Now, William, you pro- 
mise me you’ll not leave this behind. Surely 
you can’t be such a fool as to be ashamed to 
take a little refreshment before the passen- 
gers. Well-bred people won’t stare at you, 
and I know you won’t vex me by refusing the 
little provision.” 

So William laughed and promised, and 
Miss Vi looked as if she could have quizzed 
him, but at this moment the Saxton vehicle 
from the Golden Posts pulled up at the iron 
^gate of Gilroyd, and William glanced at his 
'watch, and though he smiled, it was with the 
pale smile of a man going to execution, and 
trying to cheer his friends rather than being 
of good comfort himself. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

DOCTOR DRAKE GOES TO GILROYD. 

“ And now I must say farewell, and if I can, 
or if you want me. I’ll come soon and see you 
again ; and God bless you, Violet ; and good- 
bye, my darling Aunt. I’ll write from London 
this evening, and let you know what my Paris 
address will be.” 

“ God Almighty bless you, my precious 
man, Willie ; and I’m very glad — ” and here 
Aunt Dinah’s sentence broke short, and tears 
were in her eyes, and she bit her lips. “ I 
my darling, Willie, that we met ; and 
you’ll really come soon, if I write for you ; and 
you won’t forget your Bible and your prayers ; 
and, oh ! goodness gracious I have you forgot 
the tobacco-box ?” 

It was safe in his dressing-case. So another 
hurried farewell, and a smiling and kissing of 
hands. “ Good-by, good-by 1” from the cab 
window ; and away it rattled, and William 
was gone ; and the two ladies, and old Winnie 
in the rear, stood silently looking for a 
minute or so where the carriage had been, and 
then they turned, with the faded smile of fare- 
well still on their faces, and slowly re-entered 
old Gilroyd Hall, which all in a moment had 
grown so lonely. 


84 


ALL IK. THE DAEK. 


In the drawing-room they were silent. 
Violet was looking through the window, hut 
not, I think, taking much note of the view, 
pretty as it is. 

“ I’m going away, and everything breaking 
up, and you must make allowances” — Wil- 
liam’s words were in her lonely ears now. A 
break-ui) had partly come, and a greater was 
coming. William’s words sounded like a 
prophecy. “ Breaking-up.’’ Poor Gilroyd ! 
Many a pleasant summer day and winter even- 
ing had she known in that serene old place. 

Pleasant times, no doubt, were before her — 
a more splendid home, perhaps. Still memory 
would always look back regretfully on those 
early times, and the familiar view of Gilroyd ; 
its mellow pink-tinted brick, and window- 
panes, flashing in the setting sun, half seen 
through the stooping branches of the old 
chestnuts, would rise kindly and quaint before 
her, better beloved than the new and colder 
glories that might await her. Had the break- 
up indeed come ? There was a foreboding of 
change, a presage as of death at her heart. 
When she looked at Miss Perfect she saw that 
she had been crying, and it made her heart 
heavier. 

“ Eemember, he said he’d come to you 
whenever you write. You can bring him back 
whenever you please ; and really Paris is no 
distance at all.” 

I don’t know, little Violet, I’m very low. 
It’s all very true, what you say, but I’ve a 
misgiving. I’ve looked my last on my fine 
fellow — my boy. If I did as I am prompted, 
I think I should follow him to London, just 
to have one look more.” 

“You’re tired. Grannie, darung, and you 
look pale ; you must have a little wine.” . 

“Pooh, child — no — nothing,” said Aunt 
Dinah, with a flicker of her usual manner ; 
but there was a fatigue and feebleness in her 
look which Violet did not like. 

“ Give me my desk, like a darling,” said 
Miss Perfect ; and she wrote a note, pondering 
a good Vv’hile over it ; and she leaned back, 
tired, when she had completed it. “ I did my 
duty by him, I hope. I think he does me 
credit--a handsome fellow ! I don’t see any- 
where ” 

There was a pause here, and a kind of groan, 
and, coming near, Violet Darkwell saw that 
she had fainted. 

Great commotion was there in Gilroyd Hall. 
Miss Perfect’s seizure did not pass away like a 
common swoon. Away went Tom for Doctor 
Drake, and Vi and the servants got poor Aunt 
Dinah, cold, and breathing heavily, and still 
insensible, to her bed. 

Dr. Drake arrived quickly, and came up to 
her room, with his great coat buttoned up to 
his chin, looking rather stern, in a reserved 
but friendly sort of fuss. 

“ Hey — ^yes, yes — there it is. How long ago 
did this happen, my dear ?” 

“ Not quite half an hour — in the drawing- 
room. Oh, Doctor Drake, is it anything very 
bad ?” answered Violet. 

“Well, my dear, it’s — it’s serious —but I 


hope it will be all right j it’s a smart, little 
attack of apoplexy — upon my word it is. 
There was no convulsion — that’s right. It 
was very well he came when he did — just 
caught me at the door. Open the window and 
door. Mrs. Dobbs, give me cold water. Have 
youQ. scissors? We’ll cut the strings of her 
dress and stay-lace. One of you run down and 
bring up a kettleful of hot water. Her feet 
are a little cold. Get her head up a little 
more. We’ll get her sitting up, if you please, 
in this armchair here. We’ll bathe her feet, 
and you’ll see she’ll do very well, presently. 
It’s not a case for bleeding ; and bring up 
mustard. I think you’ll see she’ll come round 
in a little time.” 

And so on the doctor talked; and directed, 
and actively treated his patient ; and in a 
little time consciousness returned, and there 
was time at last, to think of William Mau- 
bray. 

“ Shall we telegraph a message to London?” 
asked Violet. 

“ Not a bit ; she’s going on as nicely as 
possible. He’d only be in the way here, and 
it would frighten her. She’s doing capitally ; 
and she may never have a return, if she just 
takes care. She must take care, you know, 
and I’ll give you full directions how to treat 
her.” 

And so he did ; Miss Vi being accurate and 
intelligent, and rising with the occasion, so 
that Doctor Drake that evening celebrated 
Miss Darkwell to his friend Dignum, of the 
Golden Posts, as a trump and a brick, and the 
nicest little creature he ever saw, almost. 

Mr. Vane Trevor, who had called at Gilroyd 
that morning, but found all things in confu- 
sion and panic, called again in the evening, 
and had the pleasure of an interview with 
Winnie Dobbs ; but he could not see Miss 
Darkwell. The young lady had given peremp- 
tory directions respecting all visitors, and 
would not leave Miss Perfect’s room. 

Doctor Drake was honoured that evening 
by a call from the proprietor of Eevington, 
and gave him a history of the case ; and 
Trevor accompanied him back again to Gil- 
royd, where he was about to make his evening 
visit, and awaited his report in the little 
gravel court-yard, stealing, now and then, a 
wastful glance up to the old-fashioned stone- 
faced windows. But Violet did not appear. 
It might have been different — I can’t say — had 
she known all that had passed between Miss 
Perfect and Vane Trevor respecting her. As 
it was, the young gentleman’s . long wait was 
rewarded only by the return of Doctor Drake, 
and a saunter with him back again to Saxton. 

Pretty nearly the same was the routine of 
several subsequent days. Fruits and vegeta- 
bles, too, with messages came down from 
Eevington ; and in his interviews with old 
Winnie Dobbs he betrayed a great solicitude 
that the young lady should not wear herself 
out with watching and attendance. 

On Sunday he was in the church-yard al- 
most as early as the doors opened, and loiter- 
ed there till the bell ceased ringing ; and sat 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


85 


in Ms pew so as to command an easy view of 
the church door, and not a late arrival escaped 
his observation, l^ut Violet Darkwell did not 
appear ; and Vane Trevor walked home with 
little comfort from the Rev. Dr. Wagget’s 
learned sermon ; and made his usual calls at 
Gilroyd and at Doctor Drake’s, and began 
to think seriously of writing to Violet, and 
begging an interview, or even penning the 
promptings of his ardent passion in the most 
intelligible terms. And I have little doubt 
that had he had a friend by him, to counsel 
him ever so little in that direction, he would 
have done so. 


•O' 


CHAPTER LV. 

SUSPENSE. 

One day Trevor actually made up his mind to 
bring about the crisis; and, pale as a man 
about to be hanged, and with the phantom of 
a smile upon his lips, after his accustomed in- 
quiries, he told Mrs. Podgers, the cook, who, in 
the absence of Winnie Dobbs, officiated as 
hall-porter, to ask Miss Violet Darkwell if she 
would be so good as to give him just a moment. 
And on getting through his message his heart 
made two or three such odd jumps and rolls, 
that he was almost relieved when she told him 
that old Doctor Wagget had come by appoint- 
ment; and that Miss Violet and Winnie were 
receiving the sacrament with the mistress, 
who, thank God, was getting on better every 
day. 

It’s wiser for me to wait,” thought Trevor, 
as he walked away, determined to take a long 
ride through the Warren, and over Calston 
Moor, and to tire himself effectually. “ They 
never think what they’re doing, girls are so 
hand-over-head — ^by Jove, if she had not Miss 
Perfect to talk to she might refuse me, and be 
awfully sorry for it in a day or two. I must 
only have patience, and wait till the old 
woman is better. I forget how the woman 
said she is to-day. No matter — old Drake 
will tell me. It’s hanged unlucky, I know. I 
suppose she eat too much dinner with that 
great fellow, Maubray ; or some nonsense — 
however, I’ll think it over in my i:ide ; or, by 
Jove, I’ll take my gun and have a shot at the 
rabbits.” 

Miss Perfect was, indeed, better, and Doctor 
Drake, though a little reserved, spoke on the 
whole, cheerily about her. And she saw a 
good deal of her kind old friend. Parson Wag- 
get ; and also, was pronounced well enough to 
see her lawyer, Mr. Jones, not that Doctor 
Drake quite approved of business yet, but he 
thought that so eager a patient as Miss Perfect 
might suffer more from delay and disappoint- 
ment. So there were a few quiet interviews 
on temporal matters. 

William, was a little disquieted at receiving 
n© letter from Gilroyd for some days after his 


arrival. But there came at last a short one 
from Doctor Drake, which mentioned that he 
had seen the ladies at Gilroyd that morning — 
both as well as he could desire ; and that Miss 
Perfect had got into a troublesome dispute 
with some tenants, which might delay her 
letter a little longer, and then it passed to 
shooting anecdotes and village news. Such as 
it was, he welcomed it fondly — enclosing as it 
did the air *of Gilroyd — passing, as it must 
have done, in its Town-ward flight from Sax- 
ton, the tall gait of Gilroyd, penned by the 
hand which had touched Violet Darkwell’s 
that very day, and conned over by eyes on 
whose retinas her graceful image lingered still. 
Even tipsy Dr. Drake’s letter was inexpress- 
ibly interesting, and kept all the poetry of his 
soul in play for that entire evening. 

Miss Violet consulted with Miss Wagget, 
and agreed that in a day or two they might 
write a full account of Miss Perfect’s attack 
and recovery to William, whom it had been 
judged best, while there was still any anxiety, 
to spare the suspense of a distant and doubtful 
illness. 

But this is an uncertain world. The mes- 
sage, when it did go, went not by post but by 
telegraph, and was not of the cheery kind they 
contemplated. 

When William returned to his lodgings that 
evening, oddly enough projecting a letter to 
Aunt Dinah, inthe vein of the agreeable Baron 
de Grimm, whose correspondence he had been 
studying, he found upon his table a telegram, 
only half an hour arrived'. 

It was sent “ from the Rev. J. Wagget, Sax- 
ton Rectory, to M. William Maubray,” &c., &c., 
and said simply — 

Miss Perfect is dangerously ill. Come to 
Gilroyd immediately.” 

A few hours later William was speeding 
northward in the dark, for a long time the only 
occupant of his carriage, looking out from time 
to time from the window, and wondering 
whether train had ever dragged so tediously 
before — thinking every moment of Gilroyd and 
dear old Aunt Dinah — reading the telegram 
over and over, and making for it sometimes a 
cheery, and sometimes the most portentous 
interpretation ; then leaning back with closed 
eyes, and picturing a funereal groupe receiving 
him with tears, on the door-steps at homo. 
Then again looking out on the gliding land- 
scape, and in his dispairing impatience press- 
ing his foot upon the opposite seat as if to im- 
pel the lagging train. 

When William reached London he found at 
his old lodgings two letters, one from Doctor 
Sprague, the other from Miss Perfect, which 
had been lying there for some days. Having 
a wait of two hours for his train he was glad 
to And even this obsolete intelligence. That 
which, of course, interested him most was 
written with a very aged tremble in the hand, 
and was very short, but bore the signature of 
“ poor old auntie.” It was 4s follows — 

‘‘ My dear Willie, 

“I suppose they given you some account 


86 


ALL m THE PARK. 


of my indisposition — ^not mucli, and need not 
not you be disquieted. My old head is a little 
confused, some medicine I dare say, but shall 
well again in a day or two two. This note is 
under the rose. The doctor says I must not 
write, so you need not it. I have eaten a 
morsel for three days — so the pen a little. 
Do remember, dear boy, all told you, dear, 
about the five years. I dreamed much since. 
If you think of such a thing, I must do it. 
Willie, sorry I should be you shoul fear or 
dislike me. I should haunt torment Willie. 
But you will do right. When you go go to 
France, I will send £4 to amuse yourself with 
sights, &c. And Heaven bless and guard my 
precious Willie by every and influence, says 
his fond 

“ poor old Auntie. 

“Better.” 

William Maubray’s trouble increased on 
reading this letter. The slips and oddities of 
style instinctively alarmed him. There was 
something very bad the matter, he was sure. 
The letter was eight days old, the telegram 
scarce four-and-twenty hours. But however 
ill she might be, it was certain she was living 
when the message was despatched. So he 
went on assuring himself, although there lay 
on his mind a dreadful misgiving that he was 
summoned not to a sick bed, nor even to a 
death-bed, but to a funeral. 

Early that evening William drove from the 
station toward Gilroyd. The people at Dol- 
worth had heard nothing of Miss Perfect’s ill- 
ness. How should they living so far away, 
and hardly ever seeing a Saxton face, and not 
caring enough about her to be very likely to 
inquire. 

At last, at the sudden turn in the road, as 
it crosses the brow of Drindle Hill, the pretty 
little place, the ruddy brick and tall chestnuts, 
touched with the golden smile of sunset, and 
throwing long gray shadows over the undula- 
ting grass, revealed themselves. The small 
birds were singing their pleasant vespers, and 
the crows sailing home to the woods of Wyn- 
dleford, mottled the faint green sky, and filled 
the upper air with their mellowed cawings. 
The very spirit of peace seemed dreaming 
there ! Pretty Gilroyd I 

Now he was looking on the lawn, and could 
see the hall-door. Were the blinds down? 
He was gazing at Aunt Dinah’s windows, but 
a cross-shadow prevented his seeing distinctly. 
There was no one on the steps, no one at the 
drawing-¥oom* window, not a living thing on 
the lawn. And now that view of Gilroyd was 
hidden from his eyes, and they were driving 
round the slope of the pretty road to the old 
iron gate, where, ^under the long shadow of 
the giant ash tree opposite, they pulled up. 
The driver had already run at the gateway. 

Pushing his way through the wicket, Wil- 
liam Maubray had reached the porch before 
any sign, of life encountered him. There he 
was met by honest Tom. He looked awfully 
dismal and changed, as if he had not eaten, 
or slept, or spoken for ever so long. Aunt 


Dinah was dead. Yes, she was dead. And 
three or four dark shadows, deeper and deeper, 
seemed to fall on all around him, and William 
Maubray went into the parlour, and leaning 
on the chimney-piece, wept bitterly, with his 
face to the wall. 


■o* 


CHAPTER LYI. 

SOME PARTICULAES. 

The air is forlorn — -the house is vocal no more ' 
— love is gone. 

“ When was it, Tom, at what hour?” asked 
he. 

“ Late cock-crow, just the gray of the morn- 
ing. She was always early, poor little thing 
— somewhere betwixt five and six — it must ’a^ 
bin. Will you please have something a’ ter 
your ride?” 

“Nothing, Tom, nothing, thanks, but I’d 
like very much to see Winnie. Call her, 
Tom, arid I’ll wait here — or no — I’ll be in the 
drawing-room, tell her.” 

And to that room he went, standing for a 
while at the threshold, and making his deso- 
late survey; and then to the window, and 
then from place to place. 

The small table at which she used to sit in 
the evenings stood in its old place by the sofa. 
Her little basket of coloured worsted balls, 
the unfinished work with the ivory crotchet- 
needles stuck through it, were there awaiting 
the return that was not to be. There lay the 
old piano open. How well he knew that little 
oval landscape over- the notes mellow by time, 
the lake and ruined tower, and solitary fisher- 
man — poor enough, I dare say, as a work of 
art ; but to William’s mind always the sweet- 
est and saddest little painting the world con- 
tained. Under that roofless tower that lonely 
fisherman there had heard all Violet’s pretty 
music, and before it poor Aunt Dinah’s grand 
and plaintive minutes, until, years ago, she 
had abdicated the music-stool in favour of the 
lighter finger and the rich young voice. 

He remembered dear Aunt Dinah’s face as 
she, sitting by that little table there, would 
lower her book or letter and listen to the 
pretty girl’s song, sadly, in some untold poetry 
of memory. Oh, Aunt Dinah ! — He did not 
know till now how much you were to him — 
how much of Gilroyd itself was in your kindly 
old face. The walls of Gilroyd speak and smile 
no more. 

He heard old Winnie Dobbs talking to Tom 
in the passage, and her slow foot approaching. 
Poor Aunt Dinah’s light step and pleasant 
tones would come no more on stair or lobby. 

Such a welcome at Gilroyd, or anywhere, as 
the old one, for him would be no more — no, 
nowhere — never. 

In came old Winnie. Could old Vv^'innie be 
quite old Winnie, and Aunt Dinah gone? The 
' yearnings of love were strong within him, and 


ALL IN THE DALE. 


81 


he hugged good old Dobbs on the threshold, 
and her fat arms were round him, and her fat 
fingers were grotesquely patting his back, and 
the sounds of sobbing were heard by the ser- 
vants in the kitchen through the silent house. 

At last old Winnie, drying her eyes, related 
all she had to tell. 

‘‘ It happened, early this morning, . a little 
before sunrise, she went very quit — like a 
child. She talked a deal about Master Wil- 
liam, when she was well enough, an’ more 
loving-like than ever. She did not wish to 
live ; but she thought she would though — ay, 
she thought she’d do well, poor thing. Miss 
Vi was with her all the time — she was break- 
ing her heart like about it ; and Miss Wagget 
came down in the carriage, and took her away 
wi’ her — and better, sure it was. This was no 
place for her — ^poor Miss Vi. Doctor Drake 
was very kind, and sat up all the night wi’ 
her. And sure was Winnie, if doctors could a’ 
saved her she would a’ bin on her feet still *, 
but everyone has their time. It’s right, of 
course, to have the doctors in ; but, dear me, 
we all know ’tis no more use than nothink — 
there’s a time you know and all is one, first 
or last. I have mine, and you yours, and she 
had hers — the dear mistress; and time and 
tide waits for no man ; and as the tree falleth 
so it lieth ; and man is born unto trouble, as 
the sparks fly upward — and, indeed, thafs true, 
dear knows. Would you like to see her. Master 
William ? ” 

“ Does she look happy — does she look like 
herself?” inquired William. 

“ Ah ! that she does — asleep like, you’d say. 
You never saw quieter — just her own face. 
She is a very pretty corpse — poor little thing, 
she is.” 

“Perhaps, by-and-by— yet. I could not 
now. You’ll come with me to her room, per- 
haps, in a little while, perhaps. But oh ! Win- 
nie, I don’t think I could bear it.” 

“ It is not in her room,” said Winnie Dobbs. 
“She was very particular, you know, poor 
little thing, and would have her way ; and she 
left a note in the looking-glass drawer for the 
Eector — Mr. Wagget, you know, that now is ; 
and she made him promise it should be done 
as ordered, and so he did — only a scrap of a 
note, no bigger than a playing card ; and I 
don’t think you knew, unless she told you, 
but she had her coffin in the house this seven 
years — nigh eight a’most — upright in the little 
press be the left of the bed, in her room — the 
cupboard-like in the wall. Dearie me ! ’twas 
an odd fancy, poor little thing, and she’d dust 
it, and take it out, she would, wi’ the door 
locked, her and me, once a month. She had 
a deal o’ them queer fancies, she had ; but she 
was very good, she was — ^very good to every 
one, and a great manyiwill miss her.” 

And old Winnie cried again. 

“ I knew it must a’ happened sometime for 
certain — her or me must go — but who’d a’ 
thought ’twas to be so soon ?< — who’d a’ thought 
it ever ? There’s a great plate, silvered over, 
wi’ her name on’t, as Doctor Wagget took 
, away to get her years and date put on ; ’twill 


be back again to-moiTOW^ — poor thing — and 
she’s not in her room — out in the gardener’s 
house.” 

This was a disused out-building ; for it was 
many a year since^ilroyd had boasted a gar- 
dener among its officers. 

“ Do you mean to say she has been carried 
out there inquired William, in unfeigned 
astonishment. 

“ Them was her directions — ^the little note 
as T told you — and Doctor Wagget went by 
her orders strict, as he said he would ; and 
sure ’twas right he should, for she would not 
be denied.” 

So this odd conversation proceeded, and, 
indeed, with this strange direction of poor 
Aunt Dinah’s, whose coffin lay on tressels in 
the little tiled room in the small two-storied 
cubical brick domicile, which stood even with 
the garden wall, old Winnie’s revelations 
ended. 

William walked down to Saxton, and had a 
long talk with Doctor Drake, who was always 
sober up to nine o’clock, about poor Aunt 
Dinah’s case ; and he wrote to Doctor Wagget, 
not caring to present himself at the Bectory 
so late, to report his arrival. And in the morn- 
ing Doctor Wagget came down and saw him 
at Gilroyd, when a conversation ensued, which 
I am about to relate. . 


-o- 


CHAPTER LVII. 

DOCTOR WAGOETT : FURTHER PARTICULARS. 

Doctor Waggett found William in the study 
at Gilroyd ; he met him* without the con- 
ventional long face, and with a kindly look, 
and a little sad, and shaking his hand warm- 
ly, he said, 

“Ah, sir, your good aunt, my old friend. 
Miss • Perfect, we’ve lost her. My loss is 
small compared with yours, but I can grieve 
with you.” 

The Doctor laid his hat, and gloves, and 
cane upon the table, and fixing his earnest 
eyes on William, he went on — 

“We had a great deal of conversation in 
her last illness which will interest you. On 
religious subjects I found her views — poor 
lady — all very sound ; indeed, if it had not 
been for that foolish spirit-rapping, which a 
little led her away — that is, confused her — I 
don’t think there was anything in her opin- 
ions to which exception could have been 
taken. She had the sacrament twice, and I 
visited and prayed with her constantly, and 
very devout and earnest she was, and indeed 
her mind was in a very happy state — very 
serene and hopeful.” 

“ Thank you, sir, it is a great comfort.” 

“And about that spiritualism, mind you, I 
don’t say there’s nothing in it,” continued the 
Eector, “ there may be a great deal — in fact, a 
great deal too much — but take it what way 


83 


ALL IK THE DABK 


we may, to my mind, it is too like what 
Scripture deals with as witchcraft to be 
tampered with. If there he no familiar 
spirit, it’s nothing^ and if there he, what is it ? 
I talked very fully with the poor lady the 
last day but one I saw her on this subject, to 
which indeed she led me. I hope you don’t 
practise it — no — ^that’s right ; nothing would 
induce me to sit at a seance, I should as soon 
think of praying to the devil. I don’t say, of 
course, that every one who does is as bad as I 
should be ; it depends in some measure on the 
view you take. The spirit world is veiled 
from us, no doubt in mercy — in mercy, sir, 
and we have no right to lift that veil ; few do 
with impunity ; hut of that another time. 
She made a will, you know ?” 

‘‘No, I did not hear.” 

“ Oh, yes ; Jones drew it ; it’s in my 
custody ; it leaves you everything. It is not 
a very great deal, you know ; two annuities die 
with her ; but it’s somewhere about four 
hundred a year, Jones says, and this house. 
So it makes you quite easy, you see.’^ 

To William, who had never paid taxes, and 
knew nothing of servants’ wages, four 
hundred a year and a house was Alladdin’s 
lamp. The pale image of poor Aunt Dinah 
came with a plaintive smile, making him this 
splendid gift, and he burst into years. 

“ I wish, sir, I had been better to her. She 
was always so good to me. Oh, sir, I’d give 
anything, I would, for a few minutes to tell 
her how much I really loved her ; I’m afraid 
she did not know.” 

“ Pooh ! she knew very well. You need not 
trouble yourself on that point. You were 
better to her than a son to a mother. You 
are not to trouble yourself about that little — 
a — a — difference of opinion about taking 
orders ; for I tell you plainly, she was wrong, 
and you were right ; one of her fancies, poor 
little thing. But that’s not a matter to be 
trifled with, it’s a very awful step ; I doubt 
whether we make quite solemnity enough 
about it ; there are so few things in life irre- 
vocable ; but however that may be, you are 
better as you are, and there’s nothing to 
reproach yourself with on that head. AVhen I 
said, by-the-bye, that she had left you every- 
thing, I ought to have excepted her little 
jewellery, which she has left to Miss Dark- 
well, and a few books to me, that mad fellow, 
Bung, you know, among them, and an old 
silver salver to Saxton church, which there 
was a tradition was stolen by a Puritan tenant 
of Sir — what’s-his name — that had the tobac- 
co-box, you know, from some church, she did 
not know what, in this county, when his troop 
was quartered at Hentley Towers. And — and 
she had a fancy it was that spirit. Henbane, 
you know, that told her to restore it to the 
church — any church — and there are a few 
trifling legacies, you know, and that’s all.” 

Then their conference diverged into the 
repulsive details of the undertaker, where 
we need not follow, and this over, the Rector 
said : — 

“You must come down and see us at the 


Rectory; Miss Darkwell,you know, is with us 
at present ; something likely to be in that 
quarter very soon, you are aware,” he added, 
significantly ; “ very advantageous, every- 

thing, but all this, you know, delays it for a 
time ; you’ll come over and see us, as often as 
you like ; a very pretty walk across the fields 
— nothing to a young athlete like you, sir, 
and we shall always be delighted to see you.” 

Well, this dreadful week passed over, and 
another, and William Maubray resigned his 
appointment at Paris, and resolved on the bar ; 
and with Mr. Sergeant Darkwell’s advice, 
ordered about twenty pounds’ worth of law- 
books, to begin with, and made arrangements 
to enter his name at Lincoln’s Inn, which was 
the learned Sergeant’s, and to follow in the 
steps of that, the most interesting of all the 
sages of the law, past or present. 

Vane Trevor looked in upon William very 
often. Gilroyd, William Maubray, even the 
servants, interested him ; for there it was, and 
thus surrounded, he had seen Miss Violet 
Darkwell. There, too, he might talk of her ; 
and William, too, with a bitter sort of interest, 
would listen, an angry contempt of Vane 
rising at his heart ; yet he did not quite hate 
him, though he would often have been glad 
to break his head. 

Trevor, too, had his grounds for vexation. 

“ I thought she’d have gone to church last 
Sunday,” he observed to Maubray, and I must 
allow that he had made the same statement 
in various forms of language no less than five 
times in the course of their conversation. “ I 
think she might ; don’t you ? I can’t see why 
she should not ; can you ? The relationship 
between her and poor Miss Perfect was a very 
round-about affair ; wasn’t it?” 

“ Yes, so it was ; but it isn’t that — I told 
you before it couldn’t be that; its just that 
she was so fond of her; and really, here, I 
don’t see any great temptation to come out; 
do you?” 

“No — perhaps — ^no, of course, there may 
not ; but I don’t see any great temptation to 
shut one’s self up either. I called at the Rec- 
tory yesterday, and did not see her. I have 
not seen her since poor Miss Perfect’s death, 
in fact.” 

“ So did I ; I’ve called very often,” answered 
William ; “ as often as you, I dare say, and 
I have not seen her ; and that’s odder, don’t 
you think ? and I gather from it, I suppose, 
pretty much what you do.” 

“ Very likely ; what is it ?” said Vane. 

“I mean that she doesn’t expect much 
comfort or pleasure from our society.” 

William had a fierce and ill-natured pleasure 
in placing his friend Trevor in the same boat 
with himself, and then scuttling it. 

Vane remarked that the rain was awfully 
tiresome, and then looking from the window, 
whistled an air froi i “ I Puritani” abstractedly, 
and he said suddenly — 

“ There’s a lot of affectation, I think, about 
grief — particularly among women — they like 
making a fuss about it.” 

“ To be sure they do,” replied Williana 


ALL IN THE DAEK, 


89 


“ ^vhen any one dies they make such a row — 
and lock themselves up — and all hut take the 
veil ; but, by Jove, they don’t waste much 
compassion on the living. There are you, for 
instance, talking and thinking all day, and 
night-mared all night about her, and for any- 
thing you know she never troubles her head 
about you. It’s awfully ridiculous, the whole 
thing.” 

I thought you said she was very fond of 
your poor aunt !” said Vane, a little nettled. 

So I did — so she was — I was speaking of 
us — you and me — ^you know. I’m an old friend 
— the earliest she has almost — and you are a 
lover — no one’s listening — you need not be 
afraid — and you see how much she dis- 
tinguishes — ^by Jove, she likes old Wagget 
better 1” and William laughed with dismal dis- 
gust, and proposed a walk — to which Vane, 
with a rueful impression that he was a par- 
ticularly disagreeable fellow, acceded. 


•o* 


CHAPTEE LVIII. 

REVINGTON FLOWERS. 

That very afternoon William did see Violet 
Darkwell ; and he fancied he never saw her 
look so pretty as in her black silk dress. There 
was no crying — no scene — she met him gravely 
and sadly in the old-fashioned drawing-room 
of the Eectory, and was frankly glad to see 
him, and her wayward spirit seemed quite laid. 
His heart smote him for having acquiesced in 
Trevor’s fancy that there could be affectation 
in her grief. 

Good Miss Wagget being in a fuss with the 
schoolmistress of the Saxton Eagged School 
(why will benevolent people go on leavening 
the bread of knowledge which they offer with 
the bitterness of that insulting epithet?) — 
counting out copy-books, and primers, and 
slate-pencils, and rustling to and fro from the 
press to the hall-table, where they were getting 
those treasures into order — was little in the 
way of their conversation, except for an inter- 
jectional word now and then, or a smile or a 
nod, as she bustled in and out of the room, 
talking still to the matron in the hall. 

Violet had a great deal to ask about told 
Winnie Dobbs, and the servants, and even 
little Psyche, and the bird, which latter in- 
mate William did not somehow love, and 
regarded him in the light of an intruder who 
had established himself under false pretences, 
and was there wnth a design. 

“ I think papa means to take me with him 
to Londv^n,” said Violet, in re^jly to William’s 
question, ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Wagget — they are 
so kind — I think they would make me stay 
here a long time, if he would let me ; but he 
says he will have a day in about three weeks ; 
and will run down and see us, and I think he 
intends taking me away.” 

“ What can the meaning of that be ?” 


thought William. More likely ho comes to 
see Trevor, and bring matters to a decisive 
issue of some sort,” and his heart sank at the 
thought 5 but why should William suffer these 
foolish agitations — had he not bid her fare- 
well in his silent soul long ago ? What of 
this business of Trevor of Eivington! Was 
it not the same to him in a day, or three 
weeks, or a year, since be it must ! And thus 
stoically armed, he looked up and saw Violet 
Darkwell’s large eyes and oval face, and felt 
the pang again. 

“ In three weeks ? Oh ! I’m sorry if he’s to 
take you away — ^but I was thinking of going 
up to town to see him — about the bar — he has 
been so kind, and there are two or three 
things I want advice about ; I’m going to the 
bar, you know.” 

“ Papa seems always doubtful whether it is 
a good profession,” said Miss Violet, wisely, 
“ though he has succeeded very well ; but it’s 
sad, don’t you think, being so shut away from 
one’s friends as he is ?” 

“ Well, for him I’m sure it is — in his case, I 
mean. I niiss him I know, and so do you, 
I’m sure. But my case would be very different. 
I’ve hardly a friend on earth to be cut off 
from. There’s he, and Doctor Sprague, and 
Doctor Wagget here, and there’s poor Winnie, 
and Tom — I can count them up you see, on 
the fingers of one hand — and I really don’t 
think I’ve another friend on earth ; and some 
of these I could see still, and none I think 
would miss me, very much ; and the best 
friends I believe, as Doctor Wagget says, are 
books, they never die, or w'hat’s worse, change ; 
they are always the same, and won’t go away, 
and they speak to you as they used to do, and 
always show you the same faces as long as 
you have sight to look at them.” 

“ How sensible and amiable of Doctor Wag- 
get to like his Johnson’s Dictionary so much 
better than his sister,” exclaimed Miss Vi, 
with a momentary flash of her old mood. 
“ There’s certainly one thing about books, as 
you say, they never grow disagreeable ; and 
if there — ” she was going to be sarcastic, but 
she reined in her fancy, and said sadly, in- 
stead, “About books I know very little- 
nothing ; and about friends — you and I have 
lost the best friend we’ll ever know.” 

And as she spoke tears glimmered under 
her lashes, and she looked out of the window 
over the wooded slope toward Gilroyd, and 
after a little pause said in a gentle, cheerful 
voice, with perhaps a little effort — 

“ How pretty it all looks to-day, the slant- 
ing sun — poor Grannie used to like it so — 
and it is the sweetest light in the world, 
look 1” 

And William did look out on the familiar 
landscape, faintly gilded in that aerial light, 
and looking still he said — 

“You ought to come over some day with 
Miss Wagget, to see old Winnie.” 

“ I should like very much in a little time, 
but not now ; it would be very sad. I was 
looking at it from a distance, yesterday, from 
where you see the ash tree there ; you know 


90 


ALL m THE DAEK. 


that view ; Gilroyd looks so pretty from it ; 
but I could not go in yet. I feel as if I never 
could go into the house again.” 

And about friends,” she resumed, “ I some- 
times think one has more than one suspects. 
Of course you like them differently in degree 
— and differently even in the — the kind of 
liking, I reckon little Psyche among 
friends.” 

“And the bird?” said William. 

“ Yes, th'e bullfinch,” said Miss Vi, firmly ; 
and at this moment Miss Wagget entered the 
room with a great bouquet in her hand, and 
exclaimed — 

“ Isn’t this perfectly beautiful ; it’s positively 
wonderful for this time of year ; look at it, my 
dear, all from the conservatory. It’s a very 
nice taste. I wonder how he keeps it so 
beautifully;^ and very kind, I’m sure, to think 
of us ; these are Kevington flowers, Mr. Mau- 
bray. It is very kind of Mr. Trevor ; you’ll 
arrange them, won’t you dear?” 

This was addressed to the young lady, and 
at the same time she held the bouquet toward 
William, to gaze on, and he stooped over and 
smelled at the flowers, which were really 
odourless, in some confusion, and then turned 
his eyes on Violet, who blushed first a little, 
and then in a brilliant glow all over her face, 
and William looked down and smelled at the 
flowers again, and then he recollected it was 
time for him to go ; so he bid Miss Wagget 
good-bye, and took his leave of Violet, whose 
large eyes he thought, looked vexed, and on 
w'hose cheeks the fading scarlet still hovered ; 
had he ever beheld her so handsome before, or 
with a sadder gaze ; and he took her hand ex- 
tended to him rather coldly, he fancied, and 
with a pale smile left the room, feeling as if 
he had just heard his sentence read. So he 
stood on the steps for a moment, bewildered, 
and answered good Doctor Wagget’s cheery 
salutation and pleasantry that issued from 
the study window, rather confusediv. 


• 0 - 


CHAPTER LIX. 

VANE TREVOR SEES MISS VIOLET. 

Next morning William was surprised by a 
visit from Vane Trevor. 

“ Just dropped in to see how you are, old 
fellow, this morning.” 

“ Very good of you,” rejoined William with 
ironical gravity. 

“ Well, but are you well — is there anything 
wrong?” inquired Vane, who was struck by 
his friend’s savage and distracted looks. 

“ Nothing — I’m quite well ; what could go 
wrong with a fellow so magnificently provided 
for ? The Lord of Gilroyd, with such lots of 
small talk, and fine friends, and lavender 
gloves, and clothes cut so exquisitely in the 
fashion,” and William laughed rather horribly. 

“ Well, I admit you might get better traps, 


and if you like decent clothes, why the devil 
don’t you ?” 

Trevor could perceive that the whole of 
William’s ironical sally was inspired by envy 
of him, and was gratified accordingly ; and 
thought within himself, “ Your shy, gawky, 
ill-dressed men always hate a jolly fellow with 
a good coat to his back just because the women 
know the difference, and I wonder where poor 
Maubray has been trying his arts and fascina- 
tions, he has been awfully shut up, that’s 
clear,” so thought Vane Trevor, as he added 
aloud — 

“ If you’re going to London, as you say. I’ll 
give you a note with pleasure to my man, if 
you like the sort of things he makes,” said 
Trevor ; “ but I give you notice he won’t do 
his best unless you seem to — to take an inte- 
rest, you know.” 

“ Thanks — no,” laughed William, a little 
fiercely, the tailor might do his office, but I 
should still want too many essentials. Where 
would be the good in that sort of thing with- 
out the rest, and I never could go the whole 
animal — the whole brute ^ and if I could I would 
not. You may smile — ” 

“ I am not smiling.” 

“ But I swear to you I wouldn’t.” 

“ Oh, you’re very well,” said Trevor, en- 
couragingly. “Quiet man. What good could 
that sort of thing do you at the bar, for in- 
stance ? And when you're Lord Chancellor 
with your peerage and your fortune up in 
London, I shall be still plain Trevor of Eev- 
ington down here, vegetating, by Jove !” 

“ I’ll never be thatj but I may do some good 
— a little, perhaps. Enough to interest mo in 
life, and that’s all I want,” said William, who 
was fiercely resolved on celibacy. 

“ I am going over to see the people at the 
Rectory — jolly old fellow old. Wagget is ; and 
I thought I’d just look in on you. You’re not 
for a walk, are you ?” 

“iVh, thanks,” said William very shortly, 
and added, ^^I’m sorry I can’t, but I’ve letters 
this morning, and must be ready for the 
post.” 

“Well, good-bye then,” said Trevor, and 
shook hands like a man going a long journey ; 
and William glanced in his eyes, and saw what 
he was about, and thought, “ He’ll be sure to 
see her this morning.” 

So William took leave of him, and stood 
for a while in a troubled brown study on the 
steps, with a great weight at his heart, and 
after a while recollecting himself he said, 

“ Pish ! Pshaw !” and lifting his head defi- 
antly, he strode into the parlour, and sat him- 
self down grimly to write, but could not get 
on ; and took a walk instead in the direction 
of the London railway, with his back to the 
Rectory and to Revington. 

Our friend Vane Trevor had made up his 
mind to see Miss Darkwell this day, and speak, 
and in fact arrange everything ; and as usual 
the crisis being upon him, his confidence in 
himself and his surroundings began to wane, 
and he experienced the qualms of doubt ana 
the shiver of suspense. So as there was 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


91 


usually between the prison ancU the gallows- 
tree a point at which the gentleman on the 
hurdle drew up and partook of a glass of some- 
thing comfortable, Mr. Vane Trevor halted on 
his way at Gilroyd and had his word or two, 
and shake of the hand with William Maubray, 
and went on. 

On he went looking much as usual, except 
for a little pallor, but feeling strange sensa- 
tions at his heart, and now and then rehears- 
ing his speech, and more and more agitated 
inwardly as he drew near the door pf the 
Rectory. 

It was early, but Miss Wagget and Miss 
Darkwell were at home, and Vane Trevor, 
wondering whether an opportunity would 
occur, crossed the hall and was announced. 

Miss Darkwell was sitting near a window 
copying music, and he went over and shook 
hands and felt very oddly ; and after a word 
or two, she looked down again and resumed 
her work. Old Miss Wagget led the conver- 
sation, and began with a speech on her flowers, 
and was eloquent in admiration and acknow- 
ledgements. Now, poor Miss Perfect had 
told Miss Wagget the whole story of the 
Revington courtship, and the Rector’s sister 
had quite taken Aunt Dinah’s view of the case, 
and agreed that it was better the subject 
should be opened by the suitor himself ; and, 
willing to make the opportunity desired at 
once, and. dreaded, she recollected, on a sud- 
den, that she had a word to say to her brother 
before he went out, and, with apologies, left 
the room and shut the door. i 

Miss Violet raised her eyes and looked after 
her a little anxiously, as if she would have 
liked to stop her. I think the young lady 
guessed pretty well what was in Vane Trevor’s 
mind ; but there was no averting the scene 
now, and she went on writing in a bar of 
crochets in the treble, but placed the minim 
wrong in the bass. 

There was a silence, during which the little 
French clock over the chimneypiece ticked 
very loud, and Miss Wagget’s lap-dog yawned 
and chose a new place on the hearth-rug, and 
the young lady was looking more closely at 
her music, and, though with a little blush, 
very gravely industrious. Trevor looked 
through the window, and down at the dog, 
and round the room, and up at the clock, but 
for the life of him he could not think of any- 
thing to say. The silence was growing insup- 
portable, and at last he stood up, smiling the 
best he could, and drew near the window 
where Miss Violet was sitting, and tapped his 
chin with his cane, and said : — 

“ Music — a ha I — copying music ! — I — I — a 
— I used ^ copy music pretty well ; they said 
I did it uncommonly well ; but I used to 
make those pops round like the copperplate, 
you know ; you make them oval. They have 
a bookful of my copying at Kincton. They 
said — Clara did — they could read it just like 
print — and — and I wish you could give me 
some employment that way — I really wish you 
would. I’m afraid you find it awfully slow — 
don’t you?” 


“No — thanks ; no, indeed — Im very much 
obliged though, but I rather like it ; I don’t 
think it tiresome work at all.” 

“ I — I should so like — and I was so glad to 
hear from Miss Wagget that you thought the 
flowers pretty — yesterday, I mean. These are 
beginning to look a little seedy-«-aren’t they ? 
I’ll send over more to-day — I only wish, Miss 
Darkwell, I knew your pet flowers, that I 
might send a lot of them— I — I assure you 
I do.” 

Miss Dai’iiwell here looked closer at her 
work, and drew two parallel lines connect- 
ing the stems of her semi-quavers very 
nicely. 




CHAPTER LX 

THE MOMENTOUS QUEST102 

“ I — I REALLY would be so very much obliged 
if you would,” resumed Trevor. “ Do now, 
pray — ^tell me any one you like particularly I” 

“ I lilie all flowers so well,” said Miss Violet, 
compelled to speak, “ that I could hardly 
choose a favourite— at least, without thinking 
a great deal ; and I should feel then as if I 
had slighted the rest.” 

“And awfully jealous I’m sure they’d be — I 
should — I know I should, indeed — I should, 
indeed. If I — if you — if I were a flower — I 
mean, the — ^the ugliest flower in the garden, 
by Tove, and that you preferred — a — a any- 
thing — I — I think I’d almost wither away — I 
— I swear to you I do — I’d tear my leaves out 
— I would, indeed — and — and — I’m in earnest, 
I assure you — I am indeed. Miss Darkwell — 
I’m — I’m awfully in love with you — I’m — I’m 
— I’ve been waiting this long time to tell you. 
I wrote to. your father for leave to speak to 
you — and poor Miss Perfect also — I — she was 
very kind ; and I’ve come to— to say — that — 
that I hope you can like me enough — that if 
a life of the greatest devotion to your liai^pi- 
ness — and — ^and the greatest devotion to your 
happiness,”^ — he was trying here a bit of the 
speech he had prepared, but it would not come , 
back, and so he shook himself free bf it, and 
went on ; “ I’ll — I’ll try always to make you 
happy — I will, indeed — and you shall do just 
as you please — and there’s no one — I don’t 
care what her birth or rank, I should be prouder 
to see in the — ^the — as — as mistress of Reving- 
ton than you ; and I — I hope — I — I hope very 
much you can like me enough to give me some 
encouragement to — to — hope.” 

And Miss Darkwell answered very low — 

“I — I’m so sorry, Mr. Trevor — I’m very 
sorry ; but I couldn’t — I can’t, indeed, say 
anything but — ^but just how sorry I am, and 
how much obliged for your liking me — and I 
— it could not be.” And Miss Violet Dark- 
well, with a very beautiful and bright colour, 
and eyes that looked darker than ever, stood 
up to go. 


92 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


“I — pray don’t — I — I’m sure you misunder- 
stood me — I think I could — I— ^o pray — just 
a minute,” said Vane ^Trevor, awfully con- 
founded. 

Miss Darkwell waited where she stood, look- 
ing down upon the carpet. 

I — I don’t want you to answer me now ; 
I — I’d' rather you did’nt. I — I — ^you’ll not 
answer me for a week. I — I’d rather you 
thought it over just a little — 

It would make no difference, I assure you, 
Mr. Trevor. It would merely prolong what 
is very painful to me. It is very kind of you 
to think so well of me, and I’m very much 
obliged ; but I think I’ll go.” And she ex- 
tended her hand to take leave, and was on the 
point of going. 

‘^But really. Miss Darkwell,” said Mr. 
Trevor, who began to a little feel insulted, and 
to remember the Trevors, the Vanes, and the 
historic fame of Revington “ I— I don t quite 
see — I think I — I — I do think I have a right 
to — to some explanation. 

“ There’s nothing to explain ; I’ve said 
everything,” said Miss Vi very quietly. 

“ That’s very easy, of course to say ; but I 

— I don’t think it’s using a fellow quite” 

Did I ever lead you to think I thought 
otherwise?” exclaimed Miss Violet with a 
grave but fearless glance. 

There was a pause. Trevor was angry, and 
looked it. At last he said — 

^^Idid not say that, but — ^but I know — I 
know I’m not a mere nobody here. The 
Trevors of Revington are pretty well known, 
and they have always married in — in a certain 
rank ; and I think when I’ve spoken to you 
as I have done, I might have expected some- 
thing more than a simple no, and — and 1 think, 
if you did not appear to like me — at all events 
there was nothing to make me think you 
didiiHj and that’s why I say I think I’ve a right 
to ask for an explanation ?” 

^^You can have no right to make me say 
one TTord more than I please. I’ve said all I 
mean to say — more than I need have said — 
and I won’t say more,” said Miss Violet Dark- 
well, with eyes that glowed indignantly, for 
there was an implied contrast in the lordly 
marriages of the Trevors with his own tender 
of his hand to the young lady which fired her 
pride. 

Before he recovered she had reached the 
door, and with her fingers upon the handle 
she paused, and returned just a step or two, 
and said, extending her hand — 

“ And I think we might part a little more 
kindly, for you have no cause to blame me, 
and when you think a little you’ll say so 
yourself. Good-bye.” 

Trevor did not well know how he shook 
hands with her. But she was gone. It was 
all over. 

Grief — rage — dissappointment — something 
like insult! He could not say that he had 
been insulted. But Revington was. The 
Trevors were. What a resource in such states 
of mind — denied to us men — are tears. Good 
furious weeping — ^the thunder and the rain — 


and then the air refreshed and the sky 
serene. 

Mr. Vane Trevor felt as if he had been 
drinking too much brandy and water, and had 
been beaten heavily about the head ; he was 
confounded and heated, and half blind. He 
walked very fast, and did not think where he 
was going until he stopped close to the gate 
of Gilroyd. 

He went in, and rang the bell at the hall- 
door, which stood open. William came into 
the hall. 

“Come in, Trevor,” said he. He had taken 
his walk of a couple of miles, and was more 
serene. 

“ No. Come out and have a walk with me, 
will you ?” answered Vane. 

“ Where ?” asked William. 

“ Any where. Wherever you like — ^here 
among the trees.” 

“ I don’t care if I do,” said William, who 
saw that in Trevor’s countenance which 
excited his curiosity ; and out he came with 
his wide-awake on, and Trevor walked beside 
him, looking very luridly on the ground, and 
marching very fast. William walked beside 
him, quietly waiting till the oracle should 
speak. 

At last, wheeling round by the trunk of a 
huge old chestnut, he came suddenly to a 
full stop, and confronted his companion. 

“ Well, that’s off my mind ; all over ; the 
best thing I dare say could happen me, and I 
think she’s a bit of a — a — I think she has a 
temper of her own. I didn’t like any more 
shilly-shally, you know, in that undecided 
way, and ?I thought I might as well tell you 
that it’s all off, and that Bm very well pleased 
it is. She’s very pretty, and all that ; but, 
hang it, there are other things, and it never 
would have done. I have not much of a tem- 
per of own, I believe.” (Trevor was really 
a good-humoured fellow, but chose to charge 
himself with this little failing for the occasion), 
“ and I could not get on with that kind of 
thing. It wouldn’t have done — it couldnH — I 
thought I’d just come down and tell you ; and 
I think I’ll run up to town ; they want me to 
go to Kincton, but it’s too slow; and — and 
Revington’ s such a wilderness. I wish some 
one would take it. I don’t want to marry for 
ever so long. I don’t know what put it in my 
head.” 

Mr. Vane Trevor resumed his walk at a 
slower pace, and he whistled a low and con- 
templative air, looking down on the grass with 
his hands in his pocket, and then he said 
again — 

“ I thought I’d just come down and tell you ; 
and you’re not to mention it, you know — not 
to that fellow Drake, or any one, mind — not 
that I much care, but it would not do to be 
talked about, and you won’t I know, thanks, 
and the Waggets are honourablo people, they 
won’t' talk either I suppose ; and — and I depend 
on you ; and' — and you know you and I are 
friends all the same.” 

“Certainly no worsej’’ said William, very 
truly, shaking his hand cordially. 


ALL m THE DARK. 


93 


^‘And 111 be off to-day. Ill go to the 
opera, or something to-night. I’ve been too 
long shut up ; a fellow grows rusty, you know, 
in this tiresome corner. I wish some fool of a 
fellow would take a lease of it. Grcod-bye, 
old fellow ; you must come up to town and 
see me when Pm settled, mind/^ 

And so they parted. 


-o- 


CHAPTER LXI. 

A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY. 

I COMB now to some incidents, the relation of 
which partakes, I can’t deny, of the marvellous, 

I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of 
the narrative ; so can William Maubray ; so 
can my excellent friend Doctor Wagget ; so 
also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and 
sceptical physician, all thoroughly cognizant 
of the facts. If therefore, anything related 
in the course of the next two or three chapters 
should appear to you wholly incredible, I beg 
that you will not ascribe the prodigious 
character of the narrative to any moral laxities 
on the part of the writer. 

I believe William Maubray liked Vane 
Trevor very honestly, and that he was as 
capable of friendship as any man I have ever 
met with ; but this I will aver, that he had 
not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah’s 
death as for the remainder of the day on which 
he had heard the authentic report of his 
friend’s overthrow. 

Down to the town of Saxton that evening, 
walked William, for in his comfortable moods 
he required human society, as he yearned for 
sympathy in his affections. He visited his 
hospital friend Doctor Drake, now in his 
pardonable elation on the occasion of his 
friend’s downfall, as he had done when writh- 
ing under the thunderbolts of poor Aunt 
Dinah. 

In this case, however, he could not disclose 
what lay nearest to his heart. It would not 
have done to commit poor Trevor’s little secret 
to Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how 
wildly in love he was, and how the events of 
this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact. 
Doctor Drake had long ceased to be the sort 
of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering from 
one of Cupid’s bow-shot wounds would have 
cared to consult, and William visited him-on 
this occasion simply because he was elated, 
excited, and could not do without company 
of some sort. 

At about half past nine o’clock Doctor Drake 
was called away to visit Mr. Thomas, the 
draper. 

“ Gouty pain in the duodenum — there^s a 
man, now, wansh — a — ^kill himself. He is 
killing himself. Advice ! You might as well 
advise that ub — bottle. You might, a bilious 
fellow — ^lithic acid — gouty — ’sgouty a fellow, 
by Jove, sir, as you’d like to see, and all I can 


do he wone ’rink his — ^his little — whatever it 
is, anyway but hot — ^hot, sir, and with sugar 
— sugar, and you know that’s poison^ simple 
p — poison. You see me^ any li’l’ thing I take- 
— sometimes a liddle she’y, sometimes a li’l’' 
ole Tom, or branle ; I take it cole^ withow^— - 
quite innocent — rather wsefle — shlight impulse 
— all the organs — never affec’ the head — never 
touch the liver — that’s the way, sir; that’s^ 
how you come to live long — ^lots o’ waw r, cole 
waw’i', and just sprinkle over, that’s your sort, 
sir, stick a’ that, sir ; cole, cole waio'r — lots o’ 
waw’r, sir ; never make too stiff, you know, 
an’ you may go on all nigh! — don’ go, you 
know, I mayn be half ’n hour, all nigh^ sir, an’ 
no harm done — no harm, sir, rather wsefle.” 

By this time the Doctor had got himself 
into his surtout, and selecting Mr. Thomas’s 
gouty cordials, ether and both bottles from 
his drawer, he set forth on his sanitary expe- 
dition, and the symposium ended. 

So William walked musingly homeward. 
What a tender melancholy over everything 1 
What a heavenly night I What a good, honest, 
clever fellow Doctor Drake was ! By Jove, he 
had forgotten to ask for Miss Drake, who %vas 
no doubr in the drawing-room — a jolly old 
creature was Miss Drake ! Should he go back 
and drink some of her tea ? He halted and 
turned, not right about, but right face, and 
hesitated in the moonlight. No, it was too 
late — ^he forgot how late it was. But he’d go 
down specially to drink tea with Miss Drake 
another evening. And so he resumed that 
delicious walk homewards. 

There was no use in denying it any longer 
to himself — none — he knew it — he felt it — he 
was in love with Violet Darkwell — awfully in 
love ! And as every lover is an egotist, and is 
diposed on the whole to think pretty w'-ell of 
himself. The hypothesis did cross his fanej^ 
frequently, that the downfall of his friend 
Trevor was somehow connected with the for- 
tunes of William Maubray. Was there — 
might there not be — did he not remember signs 
and tokens, such as none but lover’s eyes can 
read or see, that seemed to indicate a — a pre- 
ference ; might there not be a pre-occupation ? 

What a charm in the enigmatic conditions 
of a lover’s happiness! How beautiful the 
castles in the air in which his bahitation is 1 
How she stands at the open portal, or leans 
from the casement, in beautiful shadow, or 
golden light divine I How he reads his fate 
in air-drawn characters, in faintest signs, re- 
membered looks, light words, a tone 1 How 
latent meanings hover in all she says, or 
sings, or looks, or does ; and how imagination 
is enthralled by the mystery, and he never 
tires of exploring, and guessing, and wonder- 
ing, and sighing. Those deep reserves and 
natural wiles of girls are given to interest us 
others, with those sweet doubts and trem- 
bling hopes that constitute the suspense and 
excitement of romance. 

William Maubray sat himself down in a 
delightful melancholy, in his great chair by 
the drawing-room fire, and ordered tea, and 
told old Winnie that she must come and have 


94 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


a cup, and keep him company ; and so she did 
very gladly, and William made her talk a 
great deal about poor Aunt Dinah, and this 
retrospect went on with a stream of marginal 
anecdote about Miss Violet, to every syllable 
of which, though maundered over in honest 
Winnie^s harum-scarum prose, he listened 
breathlessly, as to the far-off music of angels. 
And when all was told out, led her back art- 
fully, and heard the story bit by bit again, 
and listened to her topsy-turvey praises of 
Violet in a delightful dream, and would have 
kept her up all night narrating, but honest 
Homer nodded at last, and William was fain 
to let the muse take flight to her crib. 

Then, leaning back in his chair, he mused 
alone, revolving sweet and bitter fancies, 
thinking how well Sergeant Darkwell thought 
of him, how near Violet still was, what easy 
access to the Rectory, how sure he was of the 
old people’s good word, how miserable he 
should be, what a failure his life without her. 
How she had refused Vane Trevor — refused 
Revington. Was that a mere motiveless 
freak? Was there no special augury to his 
favour discernable in it? He had the Bar 
before him now — could not Sergeant Darkwell 
bring him forward, put him in the way of 
business? He was not afraid of work — he 
liked it. Anything — everything, for sake of 
her. Besides, he was no longer penniless. 
He could make a settlement now. Thanks to 
poor dear Aunt Dinah, Grilroyd was his. 
Aunt Dinah 1 

And here the thought of her odd threaten- 
ings and prohibition crossed his brain. Five 
years ! Nonsense I Madness I That would 
never do. Five years before so young a man, 
looks like fifty. In a lover’s chronicle it is an 
age. Quite impracticable. He would lay the 
case before Sergeant Darkwell and Doctor 
Wagget. He well knew how they^ conscien- 
tious, good, clear-headed men would treat it. 
But, alas I it troubled him— it vexed him. 
The menace was in his ear — a shadow stood 
1)3^ him. There were memoranda in his desk, 
and poor Aunt Dinah’s last letter. He would 
read them over. He had fancied, very likely, 
that she meant more, and more seriously, than 
a re-perusal would support. So eagerly he 
opened his desk, and got out those moment- 
ous papers. 



CHAPTER LXII. 

•TEE FURNITURE BEGINS TO TALK. 

He read Aunt Dinah’s letters over again, and 
marked the passage with his pencil, and read 
again. 

“ Do you remember, dear boy, all told you, 
dear, about the five years. I dreamed much 
since. If you think of such a thing I must 
do it.” 

This last sentence he underlined, “ If you 


think of such a thing, I must do it. Sorry I 
shoul ” (she meant should) “ fear or dislike 
me. I should haunt, torment Willie. But 
you will do right.” Do right. She meant 
wait for five years, of course. My poor dar- 
ling aunt ! I wish you had never seen one of 
those odious books of American bosh — Elihu 
Bung ! I wish Elihu Bung was sunk in a 
barrel at the bottom of the sea. 

Then William looked to his diary, for about 
that period of his life he kept one for two 
years and seven months, and he read these 
entries ; 

“ Dear Aunt Dinah pressed me very 

much to give her a distinct promise not to 
marry for five years — marry indeed ! I, poor, 
penniless William Maubray I I shall never 
marry — ^yet I can’t make this vow— and she 
threatened me, saying, <If I’m dead there’s 
nothing that spirit can do, if you so much as 
harbour the thought, be I good, or evil, or 
mocking. I’ll not do to prevent it. I’ll trouble 
you. I’ll torment you. I’ll pick her eyes out, 
but I won’t suffer you to ruin yourself.’ And 
she said very often that she expected to be a 
mocking spirit ; and said again, ^ Mind I told 
you, though I be dead, you shan’t escape me.’ 
^ That night I had an odious night-mare. An 
apparition like my aunt came to my bedside, 
and caught my arm with its hand, and said, 
quite distinctly, “ Oh ! my God ! William, I 
am dead ; don’t let me go.” I fancied I saw 
the impression of fingers on my arm ; and I 
think I never, was so horrified in m}^ life. 
And afterwards in her own bedroom, ihy aunt 
having heard my dream, returned to the sub- 
ject of her warning, and said, If I die before 
the time, “ I’ll watch you as an old gray cat 
watches a mouse, if you so much as think of 
ft. I’ll plague you ; I’ll save 3"ou in spite of 
yourself, and mortal was never haunted and 
tormented as you shall be, till you give it up.” ’ 
And saying this she laughed.” 

“ The whole of this new fancy turns out to 
be one of the Henbane delusions. How I 
wish all those cursed books of spiritualism 
were with Don Quixote’s library !” 

William had now the facts pretty well be- 
fore him. He had, moreover, a very distinct 
remembrance of that which no other person 
had imagined or seen — the face of the appari- 
tion of Aunt Dinah, and the dark and pallid 
stare she had actually turned upon him, as he 
recounted the particulars of his vision. It 
had grown very late, and he was quite alone, 
communing in these odd notes, and with these 
strange remembrances with the dead. Per- 
haps all the strong tea he had drunk with old 
Winnie that night helped to make him ner- 
vous. One of his candles had burnt out by 
this time, and as he raised his eyes from these 
curious records, the room looked dark and in- 
distinct, and the slim, black cabinet that stood 
against the wall at the further end of the 
room startled him, it looked so like a big, 
muffled man. 

I dare say he began to wish that he had 
postponed his scrutiny of his papers until the 
morning. At all events he began to cxperi- 


ALL IN THE LAEK, 


95 


ence those sensations, whicli in morbid moods 
of this kind, dispose us to change of scene. 
What was it that made that confounded cab- 
inet, and its shadow, again look so queer, as 
he raised his eyes and the candle ; just like a 
great fellow in a loose coat extending his arm 
to strike ? 

That was the cabinet which once, in a con- 
fidential mood, poor Aunt Dinah had de- 
€cribed as the spiritual tympanum on which 
above all other sympathetic pieces of furni- 
ture in the house she placed her trust. Such 
a spirit-gauge was in no other room of Gil- 
royd. It thrummed so oracularly ; it cracked 
with such a significant emphasis. 

‘‘ Oh ! I see ; nothing hut the shadow, as I 
move the candle. Yes, only that and nothing 
more. I wish it was out of that, it is such an 
ugly black beast of a box.’^ ' 

Now William put poor Aunt Dinah's letter 
carefully back in its place, as also his diary, 
and locked his desk ; and just then the cabinet 
uttered one of those cracks which poor Aunt 
Dinah so much respected. In the superna- 
tural silence it actually made him bounce. It 
was the first time in his life he had ever fan- 
cied such things could have a meaning. 

“ The fire’s gone out ; the room is cooling, 
and the wood of that ridiculous cabinet is 
contracting. What can it do but crack ? I 
think I’m growing as mad as — he was on the 
point of saying as poor Aunt Dinah, but 
something restrained him, and he respect- 
fully substituted as a March hare.” 

Here the cabinet uttered a fainter crack, 
which seemed to say, ‘^I hear you;” and 
William paused, expecting almost to see some- 
thing sitting on the top of it, or emerging 
through its doors, and he exclaimed, such 
disgusting nonsense!” and he looked round 
the room, and over his shoulder, as he placed 
his keys in his pocket.. His strong tea, and 
his solitude, and the channel into which he 
had turned his thoughts; the utter silence, 
the recent death, and the lateness of the hour, 
made the disgusted philosopher rise to take 
the candle which had not a great deal of life 
left in it, and shutting the door on the cabinet, 
whose loquacity he detested, he got to his 
bedroom in a suspicious and vigilant state ; 
and he was glad when he got into his room. 
William locked his door on the inside. He 
lighted his candles, poked his fire, violently 
wrested his thoughts from uncomfortable 
themes; sat himself down by the fire and 
thought of Violet Darkwell. “ Oh that I dare 
think it was for my sake she refused Vane 
Trevor 1” and so on, building many airy cas- 
tles, and declaiming eloquently over his work. 
The old wardrobe in the room made two or 
three warning starts and cracks, but its ejacu- 
lations were disrespectfully received. 

“ Fire away old fool, much I mind you ! A 
gentlemanlike cabinet may bo permitted, but 
a vulgar cupboard, impudence.” 

So William got to his bed, and fell asleep ; 
in no mood I think to submit to a five years’ 
wait, if a chance of acceptance opened ; and 
in the morning he was astonished. 


Again, my reader’s incredulity compels me 
to aver in the most solemn manner that the 
particulars I now relate of William Maubray’s 
history are strictly true. He is living to 
depose to all. My excellent friend Doctor 
Drake can certify to others, and as I said, the 
Rector of the parish, to some of the oddest. 
Upon this evidence, not doubting, I found 
my narrative. 


-o- 


CHAPTER LXni. 

WILLIAM MAUBRAY IS TORMESTED. 

On the little table at his bedside, where his 
candle stood, to his surprise, on awaking, he 
saw one of the boots which he had put off in 
the passage on the previous night. There it 
was, no possible mistake about it ; and what 
was more it was placed like one of his orna- 
mental bronze weights ; one of those indeed 
was fashioned like a buskin upon some papers. 

What were these papers? With growing 
amazement he saw that they were precisely 
those which he had been reading the night 
before, and had carefully locked up in his 
desk — ^poor Aunt Dinah’s warning letter — and 
his own notes of her threatening words 1 

It was little past seven now ; he had left 
his shutters open as usual. Had he really 
locked his door ? No doubt upon that point. 
The key was inside, and the door locked. 
The keys of his desk, what of them ? There 
they were, precisely where he had left them, 
on the chimney-piece. This certainly was 
very odd. Who was there in the house to 
play him such a trick ? No one could have 
opened his door ; his key stuck in the lock on 
the inside ; and how else could any one have 
entered? Who was there to conceive such a 
plot ? and by what ingenuity could any merry 
devil play it off? And who could know what 
was passing in his mind ? Here was a symbol 
such as he could not fail to interpret. The 
heel of his boot on the warnings and entreat- 
ies of his poor dead aunt ! could anything be 
more expressive ? 

William began to feel very oddly. He got 
oq his clothes quickly, and went down to the 
drawing-room. His desk was just as he had 
placed it; he unlocked it; his papers were 
not disturbed ; nothing apparently had been 
moved but the letter and his diary. 

William sat down utterly puzzled, and 
looked at the black japanned cabinet, with its 
straggling bass-reliefs of gold Chinamen, 
pagodas, and dragons glimmering in the cold 
morning light, with more real suspicion than 
he had ever eyed it before. 

Old Winnie thought that day that Mr. Wil- 
liam was unusually “ dull.” The fact is, that 
he was beginning to acquire, not a hatred, but 
a fear of Gilroyd, and to revolve in his mind 
thoughts of selling the old house and place, or 
letting it, and getting out of reach of its am- 


90 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


biguous influences. He was constantly think- 
ing over these things, puzzling his brain over 
an inscrutable problem, still brooding over the 
strange words of Aunt Dinah, “A mocking 
spirit ; I’ll trouble ; I’ll torment you. You 
shan’t escape me. Though I be dead, I’ll 
watch you as an old grey cat watches a mouse. 
If you so much as think of it. I’ll plague you I” 
and so forth 

William walked over to the Kectory. He 
asked first for Miss Wagget — she was out ; then 
for the Lector — so was he. 

‘‘ Are you quite sure the ladies are out — 
bothf^ he inquired, lingering. 

“ Yes, sir. Miss Darkwell drove down with 
the mistress to the church, about the new 
cushions, I think.” 

“ Oh ! then I’ll call another time and 
William’s countenance brightened as he looked 
down on the pretty spire, and away he went 
on the wings of hope. 

The church door was open, and sexton and 
clerk were there, and William, looking round 
the empty pews and up to the galleries, in- 
quired for Miss Wagget. He was not lucky. 
The sexton mistook the inquiry for Mr. Wag- 
get, and directed William to the vestry-room, 
at whose door he knocked with a beating 
heart, and entering, found the Lector examin- 
ing the register for the year ’48. 

“ Ha ! — found me out ? Tracked to my lair,” 
said he, saluting William with a wave of his' 
hand, and a kindly smiling. “Not a word, 
though, till this is done — just a minute or two. 
Sit down. 

“ I’ll wait in the church, sir,” said William, 
and slipped out to renew his search. But his 
news was disappointing. The ladies had 
driven away, neither clerk nor sexton could 
tell whither, except that it was through High 
Street; and William mounted the elevated 
ground about the yew tree, and gazed along 
the High Street, but all in vain, and along the 
upward road to Treworth, but equally without 
result : and the voice of the Lector, who thought 
he was admiring the landscape, recalled 
him. 

Mr. Wagget was not only an honourable 
and a religious man — he was kindly and gay ; 
he enjoyed everything — his trees and his 
flowers, his dinner, his friends, even his busi- 
ness, but, above all things, his books; and 
herein was a powerful sympathy with the 
younger student, who was won besides to con- 
fidence by the general spirits of the good man. 

The loneliness of Gilroyd, too — insupport- 
able, had it not been for the vicinity of Violet 
' — made his company very welcome. So, fall- 
ing into discourse, it naturally befelthat Wil- 
liam came to talk of that which lay nearest 
his heart at that moment — ^his unaccountable 
adventure of the night before. 

Very curious, and, as it seems to me, quite 
inexplicable,” said Doctor Wagget, very much 
interested. “ The best authenticated thing I’ve 
heard — much the best — of the kind. You must 
tell it all over again. It’s the best and most 
satisfactory case I know.” 

Thus oddly encouraged, William again re- 


counted his strange story, and unfolded some- 
thing of the horror with which his doubts 
were fraught. 

“ You said nothing?” asked the parson. 

“ Nothing ” 

“ Ha I It is the very best case I ever heard 
or read. Every one knows, in fact, there have 
been such things. I believe in apparitions. 
I don’t put them in my sermons, though, be- 
cause so many people donH^ and it weakens 
one’s influence to run unnecessarily into dis- 
puted subjects, and it’s time enough to talk of 
such things when people are visited, as you 
have been. You must not be frightened, 
though ; you’ve no need. If these things le^ 
they form part of the great scheme of nature, 
and any evil that may befal you in consequence 
is as much a subject for legitimate prayer as 
sickness or any other affliction ; indeed, more 
obviously so, because we are furnished with no 
other imaginable means than prayer alone, 
and a life conformable to God’s will, to resist 
them. Poor little thing ! She talked very 
flightily. I had a great deal of conversation, 
and latterly she listened, and I had hoped with 
some effect. Especially I urged her to clear 
her mind of all idea of spiritual action, except 
such as is presented for our comfort and v/arn- 
ing in the Holy Scriptures. But here, you 
see, she, poor little thing, is restless, and you 
troubled. It’s the oddest case I ever heard 
of.” 

“ Pray don’t mention what I’ve told you, sir, 
to any one.” 

“ Certainly not, for the world — not a human 
being, not even my sister. By-the-bye, 
couldn’t you come over and dine with us, and 
sleep ; you must sleep to-night by way of ex- 
periment.” 

So William promised, well pleased, and 
went ; but, alas ! this was a day of disappoint- 
ments. Violet had gone again to make a short 
stay at the Mainwarings. 

“ What can the Mainwarings want of her ? 
She’s always going there ; what is there about 
them so charming?” demanded AVilliam of 
himself; and an outline of the military son 
of the family, Captain Mainwaring, possibly on 
leave and at home, disturbed him. 

Now, to the further wonderment and even 
delight of Doctor Wagget, a very curious re- 
sult followed from the “ experiment” of Wil- 
liam’s one night’s sojourn at the Lectory. At 
his host’s request, he had locked his bed-rooni 
door, just as he had done at Gilroyd, and in the 
morning he found his stick, which he had loft 
in the hall, tied fast in the loops in which in 
the daytime the curtains were gathered. There 
it hung across the bed over his head, an 
image, as it seemed to him, of suspended cas- 
tigation. 

The Doctor was early at William’s door, and 
found his guest’s toilet half completed. In 
real panic, Maubray pointed out the evidence 
of this last freak. 

“ What an absurd ghost !” thought Mr. Wag- 
get, in a pleasing terror, as he examined ' and 
pondered over the arrangement. 

“ It only shows that change of place won’t 


ALL m THE DARK. 


97 


clo,” said the Rector. “ Consider this, how- 
ever,” he resumed, after an interval consumed 
in search of consolation, these manifesta- 
tions, and very characteristic they are, if we 
assume they come from my poor friend, are 
made in furtherance of what she conceives 
your interests, in the spirit of that love which 
she manifested for you all your life, and you 
may be well assured they will never be pushed 
to such a point as to hurt you. 

William got on the bed, and untied his 
stick, which on his way home he broke to 
pieces, as a thing bewitched, in a nervous 
paroxysm, and flung into the little brook that 
runs by Revington. 

At breakfast. Miss Wagget asked of her 
brother, 

Did you hear the noise at the hat-stand in 
the hall last night? Your hat was knocked 
down and rolled all across the hall.” (The 
parson and William glanced at one another 
here.) “It was certainly that horrid grey 
cat that comes in at the lobby window.” 

At mention of the grey cat the remem- 
brance of poor Aunt Dinah’s smile struck 
William. 

“ By Jove ! my stick was at the hat-stand,” 
exclaimed he. 

“ Your stick ? but this was a hat,” replied 
Miss Wagget, who did not see why he should 
be so floored by the recollection of his stick. 

“ Ha ! your stick ? so it was — was it,” ex- 
claimed Doctor Wagget, with a sudden awe, 
equally puzzling. 

And staring at her brother, and then again 
at William, Miss Wagget suffered the water 
from the tea-urn to overflow her cup and her 
saucer in succession. 


•O' 


CHAPTER LXIY 

AN AMBUSCADE. 

Gilroyd was awfully slow, and even the town 
of Saxton dull. Cricket was quite over. There 
was no football there. William Maubray used 
to play at the ancient game of quoits with 
Arthur Jones, Esq., the Saxton attorney, who 
was a little huffy when he lost, and very posi- 
tive on points of play ; but on the whole a 
good fellow. Sometimes in the smoking- 
room, under the reading-room, he and Doctor 
Drake played clattering games of backgam- 
mon, with sixpenny stakes, and called their 
throws loudly, and crowed ungenerously when 
they won. But these gaieties and dissipations 
failed to restore William altogether to his 
pristine serenity. Although ho had been now 
for four nights quite unmolested, he could not 
trust Gilroyd. It was a haunted house, and 
he the sport of a spirit. The place was be- 
witched, but so, unhappily, was the man. 
His visit to the Rectory proved that change of 
place could not deliver him. Pic was watched 
and made to feel that his liberty was gone. 
7 


Violet Darkwell was not to return to the 
Rectory for a week or more, and William 
called on Doctor Wagget, looking ill, and un- 
questionably in miserable spirits. To the 
Rector he had confessed something vaugely 
of his being in love, and cherishing hopes con- 
trary to the terms which poor Aunt Dinah had 
sought to impose upon him. ’ 

A few nights later, emboldened by his long 
respite, he had written some stanzas, address- 
ed to the young lady’s carte de visite^ expressive 
of his hopes, and in the morning he had found 
his desk in his bed-room, though he had left 
it in the drawing-room, and his bed-room door 
was as usual locked. His desk was not open, 
nor was there any sign of the papers having 
been disturbed, but the verses he had that 
night written had” been taken out and torn in- 
to small pieces, which were strewn on top of 
the desk. 

Since then he had not had a single quiet 
night, and the last night was the oddest, and 
in this respect the most unpleasant, that they 
had set the servants talking. 

“ Tom, he’s a very steady old fellow, you 
know,” related William, “ waked me up last 
night at about two o’clock. I called through 
the door not knowing but that it might be 
something.” < 

“ I knoiv^'^ said the Rector, with a mysteri- 
ous nod. 

“Yes, sir; and he told me he had been 
awake and heard a loud knocking in the draw- 
ing-room, like the hammering of a nail, as in- 
deed it proved to be ; and he ran up to the 
drawing-room, and saw nothing unusual there, 
and then to the lobby, and there he saw a tall 
figure in a white dress run up tne stairs, with 
a tread that sounded like bare feet, and as it 
reached the top it threw a hammer backward 
which hopped down the steps to his feet. It 
was the kitchen hammer, unhung from the 
nail there which we found had been pulled 
out of the wall. Without waiting to get my 
clothes on, down I went with him, but our 
search showed nothing but one very curious 
discovery.” * 

“ Ha ? Go on, sir.” 

“I must tell you, sir, there was a print, a 
German coloured thing. I had forgotten it — 
it was in my poor Aunt's portfolio in a drawer 
there, of a great tabby cat pretending to doze, 
and in reality slily watching a mouse that 
half emerges from its hole, approaching a bit 
of biscuit, and this we foimd nailed to the 
middle of the door.” 

“ The inside ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You did not see anything of the appari- 
tion yourself?” asked Doctor Wagget. 

“ No, I was a<5leep. I’ve seen nothing 
whatever but such things as I’ve described ; 
and the fact is I’m worried to death, and I 
don’t in the least know what to do.” 

“ I tell you what,” said the clergyman, after 
a pause. “ I’ll go down and spend the night 
at Gilroyd, if you allow me, and we’ll get 
Doctor Drake to come also, if you approve, 
and v/e’ll watch, sir, we — we’ll spy it out— 


93 


ALL m THE DARK 


well get at tlie heart of the mystery. Drake’s 
afraid of nothing, no more am I — and — and 
what do you say, may we go ?” 

So the bargain was concluded, and at nine 
o’clock that evening the Parson and Doctor 
Drake in friendly chat together walked up to 
the door of Gilroyd,* and were welcomed by 
William, who led these learned witch-finders 
into his study, which commanded easy access 
to both drawing-room and parlour, and to the 
back and the great staircase. 

The study looked bright and pleasant — a 
cheery fire flashed on the silver tea-pot and. 
cream-ewer, and old China tea things, and 
glimmered warmly over the faded gilded backs 
of the books. This and the candles lighted 
up the room so brightly that it needed an ef- 
fort — notwithstanding the dark wainscot — to 
admit a thought of a ghost. 

I don’t know whether the parson had really 
any faith in ghosts or not. He thought he 
had, and cultivated in private a taste for that 
curious luxury, though he was reserved on 
the subject among his jparishioners. I don’t 
think, however, if his nerves had been as 
much engaged as they might, he could have 
turned over the old tomes of the late Dean of 
Crutched Friars with so much interest as he 
did, or commented so energetically upon^the 
authors and editions. 

Doctor Drake was utterly sceptical, and 
being “ threatened with one of his ugly 
colds,” preferred brandy and water to tea — a 
little stimulus seasonably applied, often rout- 
ing the enemy before he had time to make an 
impression. So, very snugly they sat round 
their table. The conversation was chiefly be- 
tween the Rector and the Doctor, William 
being plainly out of spirits and a good deal 
in the clouds. The churchman sipped his tea, 
and the physician his strong drink, and there 
was adjusted a plan for the operations of the 
night. 

“ Now, Mr. Maubray, you must do as we 
order, when we bid you, you go to bed — do 
you sec — everything must proceed precisely 
as usual, and Doctor Drake and I will sit up 
and watch here — you go, at your accustomed 
hour and lock your door — mind, as usual — 
and we’ll be on the alert, and ready to — 
to ” 

“ To arrest the Cabinet — egad ! — ^and gar- 
rotte the Clock, if either so much as cracks 
while we are on duty,” interposed Doctor 
Drake, poking William’s flagging spirits with 
a joke, in vain. 

I dare say,” was William’s parting obser- 
vation ; “just because you are both here there 
will be nothing whatever to-night — I’m quite 
certain ; but I’m awfully obliged to you all 
the same. 

He was quite wrong, however, as all who 
please may learn from the seauel. 


o- 


CHAPTER LXV 

PURSUIT. 

William Maubray, in obedience to orders 
went to his bed, having locked his chamber 
door. He grew tired of listening for sound or 
signal from the picket in the parlour, as he 
lay in his bed reading, his eyes failed him. 
He had walked fifteen miles that day, and in 
spite of his determination to remain awake, 
perhaps partly in consequence of it he fell 
into a profound slumber, from which he was 
awakened in a way that surprised him. 

The sages in the study had drawn their 
arm-chairs about the fire. The. servants had 
gone to bed — all was quiet, and it was now 
past one o’clock. The conversation was hard- 
ly so vigorous as at first — there were long 
pauses, during which the interlocutors yawn- 
ed furtively into their hands, and I am sorry 
to add, that while Mr. Wagget was, at the Phy- 
sician’s request, expounding to him the precise 
point on which two early heresies differed. 
Doctor Drake actually sank into a deep slum- 
ber, and snored so loud as to interrupt the 
speaker, who smiled shrugged, shook his 
head, and, being a charitable man, made ex- 
cuses for his drowsiness, and almost immedi- 
ately fell fast asleep himself. 

The clergyman was awakened by some noise. 
He must have been asleep a long time, for 
the fire had subsided, and he felt cold, and 
was so stiff from long sitting in the same pos- 
ture that he could hardly get up — one of the 
candles had burned out in the socket, and the 
other was very low. 

On turning in the direction of the noise, 
the clergyman saw a gaunt figure in white 
gliding from the room. On seeing this form 
I am bound to confess the clergyman was so 
transported with horror, that ho seized the 
sleeping doctor by the head, and shook it 
violently. 

Up started the doctor, and also saw in the 
shadow the spectre which had paused in the 
hall, looking awfully tall. 

The doctor’s hand was on the candlestick, 
and uttering a prayer, he flung it, in a par- 
oxysm of horror ; but it was a wild shot, and 
hit the sofa near the study door, and rebound- 
ed under the table. The study was now dark, 
but not so the hall. One tall window admit- 
ted a wide sheet of moonlight. The clatter 
of the doctor’s projectile seemed to affect the 
apparition, for it suddenly began to run round 
and round the hall, in wide circles, regularly 
crossing the broad strip of moonlight and dis- 
playing its white draperies every time for 
half a second ; the philosophers in the study 
could not tell whether each new revolution 
might not bring it into the room, to deal 
with them in some unknown way. One word 
they did not utter, but groped and pulled one 
another, fiercely, and groaned, and panted, 
and snorted, like two men wrestling, and I 
am afraid that each would hav^ liked get 
his friend between himself and the object, 
which, after whirling some half dozen times ^ 


ALL m THE DAEK. 


99 


round the hall, passed off as it seemed in the 
direction of the kitchen or the back-stair. 

The gentlemen in the study, still holding 
one another, though with a relaxed grasp, 
were now leaning with their backs to the 
chimney-piece. 

Ha, ha, ha, ha !” panted Doctor Drake 
nervously, and the Eector sighed two or three 
times in great exhaustion. The physician 
was first to speak. 

“Well! Hey! Where’s your scepticism 
now?” said he. 

“ My friend — my good friend,” replied the 
parson, “ don’t be alarmed. Where’s your 
faith ?” 

“ Was there a noise ?” whispered the doc- 
tor ; and they both listened. 

“ No,” said the parson. “ Pray shut the 
door. We must not be so — so unmann’d, and 
we’ll light the candle if you can find it.” 

“Come along then,” said the physician, 
who preferred the cleric’s company just then. 

“ To the door,” said the clergyman, gently 
pushing him before him. 

When the candle was found and relighted, 
the gentlemen were much more cheerful. 
They looked about them. They stole into the 
, hall and listened. They looked like Christian 
and Hopeful making their escaoe from Doubt- 
ing Castle. 

They hastened toward the back stair and 
the kitchen, and were satisfied without explor- 
ing. Then side by side they mounted the 
great stair, and reached William’s door. They 
had to knock loudly before he awaked. 

“ Hollo ! — I say !” shouted William from 
his bed. 

“ Let us in ; Doctor Drake and I ; we’ve a 
word to say,” said the clergyman mildly. 

“ Will you open the door, sir?” wildly 
shouted Doctor Drake, who hated the whole 
affair. 

And they heard the pound of William’s feet 
on the floor as he got out of bed, and in an- 
other moment the key turned, and William, 
candle in hand, stood at the open door. 

“Well, any news — anything ?” asked Wil- 
liam. 

“ Get some clothes on and eome down with 
us. Yes-. We have seen something odd,” 
said the clergyman. 

“ Could it have been Eebecca ?” inquired 
William. 

“ Hoo ! no, sir — two feet taller,” said the 
Eector. 

“ Four feet taller,” said Doctor Drake. 

“Did you see its face?” asked William, 
using, awfully, the neuter gender.* 

“ No,” said the Parson. 

“ But I did,” said Drake — “ as long as my 
arm.” 

The learned gentlemen stood very close 
together on the lobby, and looked over their 
shoulders. 

“Come into my room, sir — won’t you? 
You may as well” (the “ sir” applying to both 
gentlemen), said William, doing the honours 
in his night-shirt. 

“ I don’t see any great good,” observed Doc- 


tor Drake, turning the key again in the door, 
as he followed the clergyman in, “ we can do 
by going down again. If there was a chance ^ 
of finding anything, but whatever it is,’its gone 
by this time, and going down would be a mere 
flourish, don’t you think ?” 

“ I wish we had the bottle of Old Tom that’s 
in the locker,” said William, who, behind the 
curtain, was making an imperfect toilet; 

“ but I suppose it’s too far,” and they all 
looked a little uneasy. 

“No, no,” said the clergyman morally, 

“ we’ve had enough — quite enough.” 

“ Unless we all went down together for it,” 
said Doctor Drake 

“No, no, pray no more to-night, said the 
Eector, peremptorily. 

“ I’ve pipes and a lot of latchia here,” said 
William, emerging in trowsers and dressing- 
gown. “ I’ve been trying it for the last ten 
days. Suppose we smoke a little.” 

“ Very good idea,” said the Eector, who had 
no objection to an occasional pipe under the 
rose. 

So they poked up the fire, and laid a block 
of coal on, and found that it was half- past 
four o’clock, and they chatted thoughtfully, 
but no more upon the subject of the appari- 
tion ; and when daylight appeared they made 
a hasty toilet, had an early breakfast in the 
parlour ; and the good Doctor Wagget, with 
his eyes very red, and looking as rakish as so 
respectable a clergyman could, appointed 
William an hour to meet him at the Eectory 
that day, and the party broke up. 


■o* 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE GHOST REAPPEARS. 

So soon as he was alone, the real horror of his 
situation overpowered William Maubray. 

“ They won’t say so, but the Eector and Doc- 
tor Drake, from totally different points — with 
minds constituted as dissimilarly as minds 
can be — have both come to the conclusions 
that these persecutions are supernatural. No 
jury on their oaths, having all the facts before 
them, could find otherwise. I see and know 
that they are unaccountable, except in this 
way ; and go where I will, I am dogged by 
the same cruel influence. Five years' bon- 
dage ! Where shall I be at the end of that 
time ? What will have become of Violet 
Darkwell ? I must abandon all my hopes — 
honestly abandon them — it is the price I must 
pay for the removal of this curse, which other- 
wise will extend itself, if there be meaning in 
the threat, to the unconscious object of my 
hopes.” 

So raved William, “ pacing up and walking 
lown” in his despair. 

That night he had his old night-mare again, 
and was visited by what poor Miss Perfect 
used to call “ the spirit key.” In a horror he 


100 


ALL IN THE DAEK. 


awaked, and found bis wrist grasped by a cold 
hand precisely as before. This time the grip 
was maintained for a longer time than usual, 
and William traced the hand to its real owner 
of flesh and blood. Thus was there a gleam 
of light ; but it served him no further. 

In the evening, still agitated by his dis- 
covery, he visited Dr. Drake, who listened 
first with surprise, and then with downcast 
thoughtful look, and a grim smile. 

^^ril think it over,” said he. “I must be 
off now,” and he poked his finger toward the 
window, through which were visible his cob 
and gig ; ‘‘ they don’t leave me much time ; 
but I’ll manage to be with you by nine this 
evening, and — and — I don’t care if we try 
that old Tom,” and the Doctor winked com- 
fortably at William. “ We’ll be more to our- 
selves, you know ; our Lector’s all for tea. 
Good-by, and I’ll turn it over carefully in 
my mind. I have an idea, but — but I’ll consider 
it — and — nine o’clock to-night, mind.” 

Thus said the Doctor as he climbed into his 
gig, and nodding over his shoulder to William 
Maubray, away he drove. 

Like a restless soul as he was, William 
toiled hither and thither through the little 
town of Saxton with his hands in his pockets, 
and his looks on the pavement, more like an 
unfortunate gentleman taking his walk in a 
prison yard, than the proprietor of Gilroyd 
pacing the High Street of Saxton, where he 
ranked second only to Trevor, Prince of Eev- 
ington. 

Eepose is pleasant, but that of Saxton is 
sometimes too much for the most contempla- 
tive man who is even half awake. There are 
in the town eleven shops, small and great, 
and you may often look down the length of 
the High Street, for ten minutes at a time, and 
see nothing in motion but the motes in the 
sunshine. 

William walked back to Gilroyd, and paid 
himself as it were a visit there, and was vexed 
to find he had missed the Lector, who had 
called only half an hour before. The loss of 
this little diversion was s'erious. The day 
dragged heavily. Leader, if you repine at the 
supposed shortness of the allotted measure of 
your days, reside at Saxton for a year or two, 
and your discontent will be healed. 

Even Doctor Drake was half an hour late 
for his appointment, and William was very 
glad to see that pillar of Saxton society at last. 

When they had made themselves comforta- 
ble by the fire, and the physician had adjusted 
his grog, and William had got his cup of tea 
by him, after a little silence the doctor began 
to ask him all sorts of questions about his 
health and sensations. 

“ I don’t think,” said AVilliam, except per- 
haps, my spirits a little, and my appetite, per- 
haps, this thing has affected my health at all.” 

‘‘No matter, answer my questions,” said 
the Doctor, who after a while fell into a mys- 
terious silence, and seemed amused, and after 
a little time further, he expressed a great wish 
to remain and watch as on the former occasion. 

“ But,” said William, very glad of the offer. 


“the Lector is not coming, and you would 
wish some one with you.” 

“ No — no one — I don’t mind,” said the Doc- 
tor, smiling with half-closed eyes into his 
tumbler. “ Or, yes^ we’ll have your man up 
when you go to bed ; that will do.” 

“I missed Dr. Wagget to-day; he called 
here,” said William. 

“Not after nightfall, though,” said the phy- 
sician, with a screw of his lips and eye-brows. 
“ I saw him early to-day ; he’s awfully fright- 
ened, and spoke like a sermon about it,” 

William looked sorely disquieted at this 
confirmation of his estimate of Dr. Wagget’s 
opinion of the case. He and Drake exchanged 
a solemn glance, and the Doctor lowering his 
eyes sipped some grog, and bursting into a 
mysterious fit of laughter which rather 
frightened William, who helplessly stood at 
the tea-table, and gazed on the spectacle, 
Everything began to puzzle him now; the 
Doctor was like an awful grotesque in a dream. 
How could a good-natured and shrewd man 
laugh thus, amid suffering and horrors such 
as he had witnessed ? 

“ I beg your pardon, but I could not help 
laughing when I thought of the Lector’s long 
face to-day, and his long words, by Jove,” and 
in a minute or two more, the Doctor exploded 
suddenly again, with the old apology on re- 
covering his gravity, and William’s bewilder- 
ment increased. 

The Doctor insisted on William’s adhering 
strictly to his tea and his hours, precisely as 
if he were alone. 

And Tom came in, and the Doctor, who was 
in no wise ceremonious, made him sit down by 
the fire, and furnished him with a glass of the 
grog he so recommended. 

He then delivered to Tom a brief popular 
lecture on the subject he desired him to com- 
prehend, and, having thus charged him, 
silence reigned; and then the Doctor, after 
an interval, smoked half a dozen pipes, and 
by the time the last was out it was past three 
o’clock. 

The Doctor had left the study door open. 
The moon was shining through the great hall 
window. 

“Put off your shoes, make no noise, and 
follow me close, with the candle, wherever I 
go. Don’t 8tiT till I do,” whispered the Doc- 
tor, repeating the directions he had already 
given — “ Hish I” 

The Doctor had seen a tall, white figure in 
the hall — in the shade beyond the window. 

“ Hish 1” said the Doctor again, seizing 
Tom by th6 arm, and pointing, with a mys- 
terious nod or two, towards the figure. 

“ Lawk ! — Oh I oh ! — Law bless us !” mur- 
mured the man ; and the Doctor, with another 
“Hish,” pushed him gently backward a little. 


•o 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


101 


CHAPTER LXYII. 

THE PHANTOM IS TRACKED. 

As the Doctor made this motion, the figure in 
white crossed the hall swiftly, and stood at the 
study door. It looked poientiously tall, and 
was covered with a white drapery, a corner of 
which hung over its face. It entered the 
room, unlocked William Mauhray’s desk, from 
which it took some, papers ; then locked the 
desk, carrying away which, it left the room. 

“Follow, with the light,” whispered the 
Doctor, himself pursuing on tiptoe. 

Barefoot, the figure walked towards the 
kitchen, then turning to the left, it mounted 
the back stair; the Doctor following pretty 
closely, and Tom with his candle in the rear. 

Oh a peg in the gallery opposite to the door 
of William Mauhray’s bed-room, hung an old 
dressing-gown of his, into the pocket of 
which the apparition slipped the papers it had 
taken from his desk. Then it opened Wil- 
liam’s door, as easily as if he had not ’ocked 
it upon the inside. The Doctor and Tom 
followed, and saw the figure approach the bed 
and place the desk very neatly under the 
bolster, then return to the door, and shut and 
lock it on the inside. Then the figure 
marched in a stately way to the far side of the 
bed, drew both curtains, and stood at the bed- 
side, like a ghost, for about a minute ; after 
which it walked in the same stately way to 
the door, unlocked it, and walked forth again 
upon the gallery ; the Doctor still following, 
and Tom behind, bearing the light. Down the 
stairs it glided, and halted on the lobby, where 
it seemed to look from the window fixedly. 

“Come along,” said the Doctor to Tom; 
and clown the stairs he went, followed by the 
torch-bearer, and, on reaching the lobby, he 
clapped the apparition on the back, and shook 
it lustily by the arm. 

With the sort of gasp and sob which accom- 
pany sudden immersion in cold water, William 
Maubray, for the ghost was he, awakened, 
dropped the coverlet which formed his 
drapery, on the floor, and stood the picture 
of bewilderment and horror, in his night-shirt, 
staring at his friends and repeating — “Lord 
have mercy on us T' 

“ It’s only Tom and I. Shake yourself up 
a bit, man. Doctor Drake — here we are — all 
old friends.” 

And the Doctor spoke veiy cheerily, and all 
sorts of encouraging speeches ; but it was long 
befoire William got out of his horror, aife even 
then he seemed for a good while on the point 
of fainting. 

“ I’ll never be myself again,” groaned Wil- 
liam, in his night-shirt, seating himself, half 
dead, upon the lobby table. 

Tom stood by, holding the candle aloft, 
and staring in his face and praying in short 
sentences, with awful unction ; while the 
Doctor kept all the time laughing and patting 
William on the shoulder and repeating, “Non- 
sense ! — nonsense I^nonsense 1” 

When William had got again into his room, 


and had some clothes on, he broke again into 
talk : 

“ Somnambulism 1 — walk in my sleep. I 
could not have believed it possible. I — I never 
perceived the slightest tendency — I — the only 
thing was that catching my own wrist in my 
sleep and thinking it was another person who 
held me ; but — ^but actually walking in my 
sleep, isn’t it frightful ? ” 

“ I don’t think you’ll ever do it again — ha, 
ha, ha ! ” said the Doctor. 

“ And why not ? ” asked William. 

“ The fright of being wakened as you were, 
cures it. That’s the reason I shook you out 
of your doldrum,” chuckled the Doctor. 

“I’m frightened — frightened out of my 
wits.” 

“ Glad of it,” said the Doctor. “ Be the less 
likely to do it again.” 

“Do you think I — I’m reallycured?” asked 
William. 

“Yes, I do; but you must change your 
habits a bit. You’ve let yourself get into a 
dyspeptic, nervous, state, and keep working 
your brain over things too much. You’ll be 
quite well in a <vcoa )wo; and I really do 
think you’re cured of this trick. They seldom 
do it again — ^liardly ever — after the shock of 
being wakened. I’ve met half a dozen cases 
— always cured.” 

The Doctor stayed with him the greater part 
of that night, which they spent so cheerfully 
that Drake’s articulation became indistinct, 
though his learning and philosophy, as usual, 
shone resplendent. 

It was not till he' was alone, and the bright 
morning sun shone round him, that William 
Maubray quite apprehended the relief his spi- 
rits had experienced. For several days he had 
lived in an odious dream. It was now all 
cleared up, and his awful suspicions gone. 

As he turned from the parlour window to 
the breakfast table, the old Bible lying on the 
little book-shelf caught his eye. He took it 
down, and laid it beside him on the table. 
Poor Aunt Dinah had kept it by her during 
her illness, preferring it to any other. 

“ I’ll read a chapter every day — ^by Jove, I 
will,” resolved William, in the grateful sense 
of his deliverance. “It’s only decent — it’s 
only the old custom. It may make me good 
some day, and hit or miss, it never did any 
man harm.” 

So he turned over the leaves, and lighted on 
an open sheet of note paper. It was written 
over in poor Miss Perfect’s hand, with a per- 
ceptible tremble ; and he read the following 
lines, bearing date only two days before her 
death : — 

“ Dear Willie, 

“ To-day I am not quite so, but trust to bo 
better ; and wish you to know, that having 
convers much with Doctor, my friend, the 
Rector, I make for future the Bible my only 
guide, and you are not to mind what I said 
about waiting five — only do all things — 
things — with prayer, and marry whenever you 
see goo seeking first God’s blessing by pra . 


102 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


“So, lest anything should happen, to re- 
move from your mind all anxiet, writes 
“ Your poor old fond 

“ Auntie.” 

Thus ended the note, which William, with- 
a strange mixture of feelings, kissed again and 
again, with a heart at once s^dejoad and im- 
mensely relieved. 

CHAPTER LXVIII. 

SO^S SMALL EVENTS AND PLANS. 

William Maubray heard from Trevor, who 
affected boisterous spirits and the intensest 
enjoyment of his town life, though there was 
not a great deal doing just then to amuse any- 
body. He had been thinking of running over 
to Paris to the Sourburys, who had asked him 
to join their party, but thought he must go 
first to Kincton for a week or two, as the ladies 
insisted on a sort of promise he had made, and 
would not let him off. He hinted, moreover, 
that there was a perfectly charming Lady 
Louisa Sourbury, of whom he spoke in a rap- 
ture ; and possibly all this, and a great deal 
more in the same vein, was intended to reach 
the ear of Miss Violet Darkwell, who was to 
learn that “there are maidens in Scotland 
moro lovely by far, who would gladly,” &c., 
&c., and also, that young Lochinvar was tread- 
ing his measures and drinking his cups of wine 
with remarkable hilarity, notwithstanding the 
little scene which had taken place. 

But Vane . Trevor was not a topic which 
William would have cared to introduce, and it 
was in relation to quite other subjects that he 
was always thinking of Violet Darkwell. 

“So,” said the old Rector, walking into the 
hall at Gilroyd, shaking his head, and smiling 
as he spoke, “ We’ve found you out — the merry 
devil of Edmonton — hey ? I don’t know when 
I was so puzzled. It was really — a-ha! — a 
most perplexing problem — and — ^and Doctor 
Drake has been our Matthew Hopkins, our 
witch-finder, and a capital one he has proved. 
I dare say, between' ourselves,” continued the 
Rector, in a low tone, like a man making a 
concession, “ that several cases of apparently 
well authenticated apparitions are explicable 
— ell ? — upon that supposition ; ” and, indeed, 
good Doctor Wagget devoted time and research 
Ho this inquiry, and has written already to two 
publishers on the suject of his volume, called 
“ The Debatable Land;” and when, last sum- 
mer, I passed a week at the Rectory, my ad- 
mirable friend read to me his introduction, in 
which he says, “ If apparitions he permitted, 
they are no more supernatural than water- 
spouts and other phenomena of rare occur- 
rence, but, ipso facto, natural. In any case a 
Christian man, in presence of a disembodied 
spirit should be no more disquieted than in 
that of an embodied one, i.e., a human being 
under its mortal conditions.” 

And the only subject on which I ever 


heard of his showing any real impatience is 
that of his night-watch in the study at Gil- 
royd, as slily described by Dr. Drake, who 
does not deny that he was himself confound- 
edly frightened by William Maubray’ s first 
appearance, and insinuates a good deal about 
the Rector, which the Rector, with a dignified 
emphasis, declares to be “unmeaning tra- 
vesty.” 

In the meantime, Mr. Sergeant Darkwell 
made a flying visit to the Rectory, and Mau- 
bray had a long walk and a talk with him. 
I do not think that a certain shyness, very 
hard to get over where ages differ so con- 
siderably, permitted Mie young man to say 
that which most pressed for utterance ; but he 
certainly did talk very fully about the “ bar,” 
and its chances; and William quite made up 
his mind to make his bow before the world in 
the picturesque long robe and whalebone wig, 
which every one of taste admires. 

But the Sergeant, who remained in that 
part of the world but for a day, when he 
donned his coif, and spread his sable wings 
for flight towards the great forensic rookery, 
whither instinct and necessity called him, 
carried away his beautiful daughter with him, 
and the sun of Saxton, Gilroyd, and all the 
world around was darkened. 

In a matter like love, affording so illimitable 
R supply of that beautiful vaporous material of 
which the finest castles in the air are built, 
and upon, which every match-maker — and 
what person worthy to live is not a match- 
maker? — speculates in a spirit of the most 
agreeable suspense and the most harmless 
gambling, it would be hard if the architects of 
such chateaux, and the “backers” of such 
and such events, were never in their incessant 
labours to light up a prophetic combination. 
Miss Wagget was a free mason of the order of 
the “ Castle in the Air.” Her magical trowel 
was always glittering in the sun, and her busy 
square never done adjusting this or that block 
of sunset cloud. She had, some little time 
since, laid the foundations in the firmament 
of such a structure for the use and occupation 
of William Maubray and Violet Darkwell ; and 
she was now running it up at a rate which 
might have made sober architects stare. The 
structure was even solidifying, according to 
the nebidous theory of astronomers. 

And this good lady used, in her charity, to 
read for William in his almost daily visits to 
the rectory, all such passages in Violet’s 
letters as she fancied would specially interest 
him. ♦ 

Her love for the old scenes spoke very 
clearly in all these letters. But — ^and young 
ladies can perhaps say whether this was a good 
sign or a bad one — she never once mentioned 
William Maubray ; no, no more than if such 
a person did not exist, although certainly she 
asked vaguely after the neighbours, and I 
venture to think that in her replies. Miss 
Wagget selected those whom she thought 
most likely to interest her correspondent. 

All this time good Miss Wagget wrote con- 
stantly to remind the barrister in London of 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


103 


his promise to allow Violet to return to the 
Rectory for another little visit. It was so 
long delayed that William grew not only me- 
lancholy, but anxious. What might not be 
going on in London ? Were there no richer 
fellows than he, none more — morc^what 
should he say ? — more that style of man who 
is acceptable in feminine eyes? Was not 
Violet peerless, go where she might ? Could 
such a treasure remain long unsought? and if 
sought, alas ! who could foresee the event ? 
And here he was alone, at Gilroyd, well know- 
ing that distance, silence, absence, are sure at 
last to kill the most vigorous passion ; and 
how could a mere fancy, of the filmiest texture 
— such as his best hopes could only claim, 
by way of interest in her heart or in her head 
— survive these agencies of decay and death ? 

“ Next week I think I shall run up to town. 
I must arrange about attending an equity 
draughtsman’s. I’m determined, sir, to learn 
my business thoroughly,” said William. 

“Right, sir! I applaud you,” replied the 
Rector, to whom this was addressed. “ I see 
you mean work, and are resolved to master 
your craft. It’s a noble profession. I had an 
uncle at it who, everybody said, whould have 
done wonders, but he died of small-pox in the 
Temple, before he had held a brief, I believe, 
though he had been some years called ; but it 
would have come. Made virtute, I may live 
to see you charge a jury, sir.” 


CHAPTER LXIX 

WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON. 

Violet Darkwell’s stay in London length- 
ened. Saxton was growing intolerable. Wil- 
liam began to despond. He ran up to town, 
and stayed there for a few weeks. He cat his 
dinner in Lincoln’s Inn Hall for two terms, 
and dined every Sunday, and twice beside, at 
the ‘Darkwells.’ The Sergeant was so busy 
that, on these occasions, he appeared like a 
guest — an unexpected presence, and wes still 
evidently haunted by briefs — fatigued and 
thoughtful; but very kind to William. In 
their short after-dinner sittings I do not think 
that William ever opened the subject that was 
nearest his heart. He had, I think, and with 
a great deal better reason than poor Vane 
Trevor of Revington, whose pale phantom 
sometimes flitted warningly before his imagi- 
nation — horrible qualms about his money 
qualification. 

After one of these Sunday dinners William 
and Sergeant Darkwell tete-dr-Ute^ the barrister, 
in his quiet cheery way, had been counselling 
the student on some points, and relating bar 
stories, always pleasant to hear when told by 
bright and accurate men like him ; and said 
he, as they rose, “ and the first term you 
make a hundred pounds I give you leave to 
marry.” 


William looked hard at his host.- But his 
countenance was thoughtful, he had w'ahdered 
away already to some other matter. In fact ho 
looked quite innocent, and I believe he was, of 
thought of Violet. 

“ I give you leave to marry.” Of course it 
was quite out of the question that he could 
have meant what the young man fancied he 
might mean. Still he thought he might lay 
down this general rule, and leave it to him to 
make the particular inference. 

“ I see,” said William, in conference with 
himself, as he trudged home that night, 
dejectedly. “He wishes me to understand 
that I shan’t have his consent till then. A 
hundred pounds in a term! He had been 
seven years called before he made that ? Could 
William hope to succeed so well ? Not quite, 
he rather thought.” And then grasping his 
stick hard he swore it was like Jacob’s service 
for Rachel — a seven years’ business; and 
all for a Rachel, who had no thought of 
waiting. 

On all these occasions he saw Violet. But 
was there not a change, a sense of distance, 
and above all, was there not that awful old 
“ she-cousin” (to borrow Sam Papy’s con- 
venient phrase), of Sergeant Darkwell, silent, 
vigilant, in stiff silk, whose thin face smiled 
not, and whose cold gray eyes followed him 
steadily everywhere and who exercised an 
authority over Violet more than aunt-like ?” 

William called again and again, but never 
saw pretty Violet without this prudent and 
dreadful old lady. Her indeed ho twice saw 
alone. In a Ute-d-Ute she was not more agree- 
able. She listened to what few things, with a 
piteous ransacking of his invention and his 
memory he could bring up, and looked upon 
him with a silent suspicion and secret aversion 
under which his spirit gradually despaired and 
died within him. Glimpses of Violet, under 
the condition of this presence, were tantalizing, 
even agonizing sometimes. The liberty of 
speech so dear to Englishmen was denied him, 
life was gliding away in this speechless dream, 
the spell of that lean and silent old lady was 
upon him. How he yearned for the eas)^ 
country life with its kindly chaperons and end- 
less opportunities. Love, as we ail know, is a 
madness, and it is the property of madmen to 
imagine conspiracies, and William began to 
think that there was an understanding between 
Sergeant Darkwell and the “ she-cousin,” and 
that she was there to prevent his ever having 
an opportunity of saying one confidential word 
in Violet’s ear. It seemed to him, moreover, 
that this was unspeakably worse, that Violet 
was quite happy in this state of things. He 
began to suspect that he had been a fool, that 
his egotism had made him, in a measure, mad, 
and that it was time for him to awake and 
look the sad truth in the face. 

William left London. He wavered in his 
allegiance to the Bar. He doubted his fitness 
for it. Had he not money enough for all his 
wants ? Why should he live a town life, and 
grieve his soul over contingent remainders, 
and follow after leading cases in objectless 


104 


ALL IN THE DARK 


pursuit, and lose himself in Bacon’s intermi- 
nable Abridgment, all for nothing ? 

He returned to keep his next term, and 
suffer a like penance. It seemed to him there 
was a kind of coldness and reserve in Violet 
that was hardly tangible, and yet it was half 
breaking his heart. She was further away 
than ever, and he could not win her back. 
He sate there under the eye of silent Miss 
Janet Smedley — the inexorable she-cousin. 
There was no whispering in her presence. 
She was so silent you might hear a pin drop. 
Not a syllable escaped her observant ear. 
There was no speaking in her presence, and 
that presence never failed — though Violet’s 
sometimes did. The situation was insuppoi t- 
able. Away went William again — and this 
time he made a portion of that charming tour 
of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, which for any 
comfort it gave his spirit, he might as well or 
better have made within the covers of Mr. 
Doyle’s famous quarto. 

Back to England with the home sickness of 
!ove came William. He had still a week 
before his term commenced. 

“ I can’t stand it any longer,” said he, as he 
paced the platform of the “Railway” by 
which he had taken not an “up” but a 
“down” ticket. “ I know I’m right. I must 
go down and see Miss Wagget. I’d rather 
talk to her than to the Doctor. I know very 
well she sees how it is, and she’ll tell me 
what she thinks, and if she advises, I’ll speak 
to the Sergeant when I go to town, and so I 
shall soon know one way or other,” and he 
sighed profoundly, and with a 5 ^earning look 
town-wards he took his place^ and flew away 
toward Gilroyd. 




CHAPTER LXX. 

VIOLET DARKWELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT 
QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD. 

The sun was near the western horizon, and 
sky and clouds were already flooded with the 
sunset glow, as William Maubray drove up to 
the high and formal piers of Gilroyd, with 
their tall urns at top — decorations which 
belong to old-world fancy — a little formal, 
like the stately dress of by-gone beauties and 
beaux, but with a sentiment and a prettiness 
of their own. Sad looked to him the smile of 
the old building and lordly trees in the fading 
sunlight; the windows sparkled redly in it, 
the ivy rustled in the light air, and the spar- 
rows twittered and fluttered up and down 
among its glittering leaves — ^tiie time, the 
sights, and sounds recalling many an arrival 
at the same pleasant hour, and many a 
welcome look and tone — ^gone now — faint and 
far away in memory, and ever to grow more 
and more distant. 

Tlie hall door was open — in went William 
'v ithout a summons — and in the hall he heard 


voices issuing from the drawing-room. Old 
Miss Wagget’s kindly and cheering tones 
were distinctly audible, and Winnie Dobbs 
%vas making answer as he entered. From the 
two old women, as he stepped in, there was a 
simultaneous ejaculation; and Winnie’s two 
hands were lifted in amaze, and she beamed 
on him with a ruddy smile of welcome, crying 
aloud, “Well, law! ’Tis him, sure enough!” 
and “There you are; what a charming 
surprise !” exclaimed Miss Wagget, trotting 
up to him with her hands extended, and 
shaking both his with a jolly little laugh. 

“ We walked over to pay our respects to 
good Winnie Dobbs here, little expecting to 
meet the lord of the Castle. Ha, ha, ha ! why 
we thought you were at Hamburg, and lo and 
behold ! Here we have you ! And I ventured 
to bring a friend, will you allow me to intro- 
duce ?” 

But Violet Darkwell — ^for she was the 
friend — not waiting for Miss Wagget’s mock 
ceremony, came a step or two to meet him, 
and again, in Gilroyd, he held that prettiest 
of slender hands in his. 

“ Oh ! pretty Vi, who could forget you ? 
How I wish you liked me ever so little! 
Oh ! that you were the mistress of Gilroyd 1” 
These were his thoughts as with a smile and 
a quiet word or two of greeting he took her 
hand. 

“Did you come through London?” asked 
Miss Wagget. 

“ No ; direct here,” he answered. 

“ Surprised to find us, I dare say ?” and she 
glanced at Violet. “ Our friend here — ^like a 
good little creature, as she is — came down to 
keep me company for a week, and as much 
longer as I can make her stay, while my 
brother is at Westthorpe, and you must come 
over with us to tea.” 

William a,cquiesced. 

“And, Winnie Dobbs, you must tell me all 
you know of that Tummins family at the 
mill — are they really deserving people ? — 
there was a rumour, you know — young 
people, do you go out and take a ramble in 
the lawn, and I’ll join you. Winnie and I 
must talk for a minute or two.” 

So Violet and William did go out, and stood 
for a minute in the old familiar porch. 

“ How pretty it looks — ^always in the set- 
ting sun — ^it’s the light that suits Gilroyd. 
There’s something a little melancholy in this 
place, though cheery along with it — I don’t 
know how,” said William. 

“So do I — I always thought that — like 
those minutes I used to play, that dear old 
grannie liked so well — something brilliant and 
old fashioned, and plaintive,” replied the sweet 
voice of Violet Darkwell. 

“^Come out into the sunlight,” said William. 
“ Oh ! how pretty ! isn’t it ? isn’t it ?” 

Violet looked round with a sad smile that 
was beautiful on her girlish face. 

“ And the chestnut trees — I wonder how old 
they are,” said William. “I must see you 
once more, Violet, among the chestnut trees ;” 
and he led her towards them, she going will- 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


105 


ingly, with a little laugh that sounded low and 
sadly. 

Among their stems, he stopped before that 
of a solitary beech tree. 

‘‘ Do you remember that tree V said Wil- 
liam, speaking very low. 

I do indeed,” said Violet with the faintest 
little laugh in the world. 

“ It’s more than three years ago — it’s four 
years ago — since I carved them.” He was 
pointing to two lines of letters, already begin- 
ning to spread and close in as such memorials 
on the living bark will do — but still legible 
enough. They w^re — 

Vi Darkwell, 

William Maubray. 

“These are going,” he said with a sigh, 
“ like the old inscriptions in Saxton church- 
' yard ; I believe it is impossible to make any 
lasting memorial ; even memory fails as we 
grow old ; God only remembers always ; and 
•this little carving here seems to me like an 
epitaph, times are so changed, and we — Vi 
Darkwell — William Maubray” — (he read slow- 
ly). “ Little Vi is gone — dead and buried — 
and William Maubray — he did not know a 
great many things that he has found out since. 
He is dead and gone too, and I am here. He 
did not know himself ; he thought the old 
things were to go on always ; he did not know, 
Vi, how much he loved you — how desperately 
he loved you. You don’t know it — ^you can’t 
know it — or how much rather I’d die than lose 
you.” 

She was looking down, tne point of her little 
foot was smoothing this way and that the 
moss on the old roots that over-laced the 
ground. 

“ If I thought you could like me ! Oh I 
Violet, can you — ever so little?” He took 
her hand in both his, and his handsome young 
face was as that of a man in some dreadful 
hour pleading for his- life. There were the 
glow of hope, the rapture of entreaty, the lines 
of agony 

“ I like you, William. I do like you,” she 
said, so low that no other ears but his, I think, 
could have heard it, and the little wood ane- 
monies nodded their pretty heads, and the 
groups of wood-sorrel round trembled, it 
seemed with joy ; and William said in a wild 
whisper — 

, “My darling— oh I Vi — my darling. My 
only love — dearer, and dearer, every year. Oh ! 
darling, my love is everlasting !” and he kissed 
her hand again and again, and he kissed her 
lips, and the leaves and flowers were hushed, 
nature was listening, pleased, and, I think, the 
angels looking down smiled on those fair 
young mortals, and those blessed moments 
that come with the glory of paradise, and 
being gone, are remembered for ever. 

“ Why, young people, what has become of 
you?” cried the well known voice of Miss 
Wagget. Ho! here you are. I guessed I 
should find you among the trees, grand old 
timber Mr. Maubray.” The guilty pair ax)- 


proached Miss Wagget side by side, looking 
as unconcerned as they could, and she talked 
on. “ I sometimes think, Mr. Maubray, that 
Gilroyd must be a much older place than most 
people fancy. That house, now, what style is 
it in? My brother says there were such 
houses built in Charles the Second’s time, but 
the timber you know is — particularly the oaks 
down there — the trees are enormously old, and 
there are traces of a moat. I don’t under- 
stand these things, but my brother says, at the 
side of the house toward the road,” and so 
on kind Miss Wagget laboured, little assisted 
by William, upon topics about which none of 
them were thinking. 

That evening Miss Wagget was seized with 
a sort of musical frenzy, and sat down and 
played through ever so many old books of 
such pieces as were current in her youth, and 
very odd and quaint they sound now — more 
changed the fashion of our music even than of 
our language. 

I’m afraid that the young people were not 
so attentive as they might, and William whis- 
pered incessantly, sitting beside Violet pn the 
sofa. 

It was rather late when that little musical 
party broke up. 

To Gilroyd, William walked in a dream, in 
the air, all the world at his feet, a demigod. 
And that night when Vi, throwing her arms 
about Miss Wagget’s neck, confided in her car 
the momentous secret, the old lady exclaimed 
gaily— 

“ Thank you for nothing ! a pinch for stale 
news! W^hy I knew it the moment I sav/ 
your faces under the trees there, and I’m very 
haxDpy. I m delighted. I’ve been planning 
it, and hoping for it this ever so long — and 
poor fellow ! He was so miserable.” 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

THE CmMES OF SAXTON. 

Next morning Miss Wagget was busy, in a 
great fuss, writing the news to her brother and 
the Sergeant, and for the benefit of the latter 
she drew such a picture of William Maubray’ s 
virtues and perfections in general as must have 
made that sagacious man long to possess such 
a son-in-law. The good lady enclosed a duti- 
ful little note to him from Violet, and wound 
up with an eloquent lecture, in which she de- 
monstrated that if the Sergeant were to op- 
pose this palpable adjustment of Providence, 
he should be found to fight against heaven, 
the consequences of which enterprise she left 
him to conjecture. 

William also spent the entire forenoon over 
a letter to the same supreme authority ; and 
the letters despatched, there intervened a few 
days of suspense and wonderful happiness, 
notwithstanding. 

' William was waiting in the little x)ost-office 


106 


ALL IN THE DARK. 


of Saxton when the answering letters came., 
Mrs. Beggs ha\dng sorted the contents of the 
mail with an anxious eye, delivered his letters 
and at his desire, those for the rectory, to 
William. There was a letter from the Ser- 
geant for him. There was no mistaking the 
tall and peculiar hand. There were two 
others addressed severally to the ladies at the 
rectory. William did not care to read his in 
Mrs. Begg’s little parlour, so he took his leave 
cheerfully, even gaily, with an awful load at 
his heart. 

In his pocket lay his fate sealed. Hardly a 
soul was stirring in the drowsy little street. 
Here and there a listless pair of eyes peeped 
through the miniature panes of a shop window. 

He could not read the letter where any eye 
could see him. He hurried round the corner 
of Garden Eow, got on the road leading to 
Gilroyd, crossed the style that places you 
upon the path to the rectory, and in the pretty 
field, with only half a dozen quiet cows for 
witnesses, opened and read his London letter. 

It told him how well Mr. Sergeant Darkwell 
liked him, that he believed wedded happiness 
depended a great deal more on affection, 
honour, and kindness, than upon wealth. It 
said that he had aptitudes for the bar, and 
would, no doubt, do very well with exertion. 
It then mentioned what the Sergeant could 
do for his daughter, which William thought 
quite splendid, and was more. Miss Wagget 
afterwards said, than she had reckoned upon. 

For some years at least they were to live 
with the Sergeant, ‘‘ putting by your income, 
my dears, and funding at least five or six 
hundred a year,” interposed Miss Wagget, who 
was in a wonderfal fuss. “ You’ll be rich be- 
fore you know where you are — you will, in- 
deed! He’s an admirable man — your father’s 
an admirable man, my dear! I don’t know 
such a man, except my brother, who’s a man 
by himself, you know. But next after him, 
your papa, my dear, is the very best man I 
ever heard of. And you’ll he married here, 
at Saxton — you shall, indeed. You must re- 
main with us, and he married from this, and 
I wonder my brother stays so long away, he’ll 
be as glad as I. The Sergeant shall come 
down to us for the wedding, and give you 
away at Saxton, and there’s that beautiful spot, 
Wyndel Abbey, so romantic and charming, 
the very place for a honey-moon, and only 
fifteen miles away.” 

And so, on and on, ran good Miss Wagget, 
arranging everything for the young people, 
and as it were, counting the turnpikes, and 
packing the trunks for the happy excursion- 
ists, and making them comfortable in the 
pretty little inn at Wyndel Abbey, where she 
had once spent a week. 

Well would it be for castle-builders in gen- 
eral if their dreams proved all as true as those 
of fanciful and kindly Miss Wagget did, on 
this occasion. 

It was agreed it was to he a very quiet wed- 
ding. At secluded Saxton, indeed it would 
not have been easy to make it anything else. 
Sergeant Darkv/ell of course gave pretty 
Violet away. 


Honest Dr. Drake was there, in an unpro- 
fessional blue coat and huff waistcoat, and 
with a bouquet in his button-hole, in which 
not a single camomile flower figured. Miss 
Drake, too, in a lavender silk ; and wishing 
the gay couple every good from her heart, 
notwithstanding her surprise that Sergeant 
Darkwell should have permitted his child to 
marry at so early an age as eighteen — nineteen ? 
Well, one year here or there doesn’t signify a 
great deal, she fancied. Good old Winnie 
Dobbs, too, in a purple silk and new bonnet, 
which must have been quite in the fashion, 
for all Saxton admired it honestly. A little 
way from the communion rails, behind the 
gentlefolks, she stood or kneeled, edified, 
only half credulous, smiling sometimes, and 
crying a great deal — thinking, I am -sure, of 
kind old Aunt Dinah, who was not to see that 
hour. Winnie, I mention parenthetically, is 
still housekeeper at Gilroyd, and very happy, 
with nothing hut a little rheumatism to trouble 
her. 

Here every year William and Violet pass 
some time, and the happiest month of all the 
twelve, though the estates and title have 
come to him, and he is Sir William and she 
Lady Mauhray. But the change has not 
spoiled either. The honest affections and 
friendly nature delight in the old scenes and 
associates ; and in summer sunsets, under the 
ancient chestnuts, they ramble sometimes, 
her hand locked in his ; and often, I daresay, 
he runs over those delightful remembrances, 
still low — still in a lover’s tone, she looking 
down on the grass and wild flowers, as she 
walks beside him and listens as she might to 
a sweet air, always welcome, the more wel- 
come that she knows it so well; and they 
read the inscription on the beech tree, time 
has not effaced it yet, they read it smiling, in 
their happy dream, with that something of 
regret that belongs to the past, and all the 
tenderness that tones the uncertain mortal 
future. 

Sometimes William says a word of Trevor, 
and she laughs, perhaps a little flattered at 
the remembrance of a conquest. Vane Trevor 
is very well, not married yet, they say, grown 
a little stout, not often at Revington. He 
does not put himself much in the way of Sir 
William, hut is very friendly when they cor- 
respond on Saxton matters. Workhouse, and 
others. He has not renewed his attentions at 
Kincton. Clara has grown “awfully old,” he 
has been heard to remark. She has latterly 
declined gaieties, has got to the very topmost 
platform of high-churchism, from which a 
mere step-ladder may carry her still higher. 
Dean Sancroft, who fought the Rev. John 
Blastus in the great controversy, you must 
remember, on credence tables, candles, and 
super-altars, is not unfrequently an inmate of 
Kincton, and people begin to canvass proba- 
bilities. 

But whither have I drifted? Let us come 
hack to quiet old Saxton Church, and the mar- 
riage service. The Miss Mainw^arings and a 
pretty Miss Darkwell a cousin of the bride’s, 


ALL IN THE DABK. 




I 

attended as 'bridesmaids. And with Sergeant 
Darkwell had arrived the “silent woman.” 
She could not help her taciturnity any more 
than her steady gray eyes, which used to 
terrify William so, while he haunted the 
drawing-room in town, she attended, in very 
handsome and appropriate costume, and made 
Vi a very pretty present of old-fashioned 
jewellery, and was seen to dry her gray eyes 
during the beautiful “ solemnization of matri- 
mony,” as good Doctor Wagget, in the old 
church, under the oak-roof which had looked 
down for so many centuries on so many 
young kneeling couples, in the soft glow of 
the old stained windows whose saints looked 
smiling on with arms crossed over their 
breasts ; read the irrevocable words aloud, 
and the village congregation reverently listen- 
ing^ heard how these two young mortals, like 
the rest, had “ given and pledged their troth, 
either to other, and declared the same by 
giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining 
of hands,” and how the good Hector pro- 
nounced that “Hiey be man and wife together,” 
in the name ofthe glorious Trinity. 

As we walk to the village church, through 
the church-yard, among the gray, discoloured 
headstones that seem to troop slowly by us as 
we pass, the lesson of change and mort^ty is 


107 

hardly told so sublimely as in the simple order 
of our services. The pages that follow the 
“Communion” open on the view liko the 
stations in a pilgiumage. The Baptism of 
Infants” — “A Catechism” — “The Order of 
Confirmation ” — “ The Solemnization of Matri- 
mony ” — “ The Visitation of the Sick ” — “ The 
Burial of the Dead.” So, the spiritual events 
of life are noted and provided for, and the 
journey marked from the first question — 
“Hath this child been already baptized or 
no ?” down to the summing up of life’s story 
— “ Man that is born of a woman, hath but a 
short time to live, and is full of misery. He 
cometh up and is cut down as a flower, he 
fleeth as it were a shadow, and never con- 
tinueth in one stay.” 

And so Doctor Wagget after the blessing 
invoked, and his beautiful office ended, smil- 
ing bids William “ Kiss your wife,” and there 
is a fluttering of gay ribbons, and many smil- 
ing faces, and a murmuring of pleased voices, 
and greetings and good wishes, as they go to 
the vestry-room to sign Dr. Wagget’s ancient 
ledger of all such doings. 

And now while the sun is shining and the 
hells of Saxton trembling in the air, I end 
my story 




THE END. 


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